


The Prodigal Bond

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fisting, Anal Gaping, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Choking, Criminal Dean Winchester, Disabled Castiel (Supernatural), FBI Agent Castiel (Supernatural), Felching, Fic Facer$ Charity Auction 2019 (Supernatural), Graphic Descriptions of Noncon Underage Sex/Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panty Kink, Physical Therapy, Prison Sex, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rehabilitation, Serial Killer Castiel (Supernatural), Serious Injuries, Sex for Favors, Snowballing, Sounding, Suicidal Thoughts, Switching, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Urethral Play, Urination, Urolagnia, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-16 05:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21502606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: In exchange for conjugal visits, Dean Winchester gives FBI Supervisory Special Agent Castiel Novak all the dirt he needs to bring down national crime rings. It's a tit-for-tat situation; primal, animalistic, and probably ten kinds of illegal.When a case is revealed to be closer to Castiel than what he considers safe, he and Dean must work together to make sure that Crowley goes down for good. Will Castiel be able to keep Dean at arm's length, or will the charming convict finally get what he's been asking for all along? What lengths will Castiel go to... at Dean's behest?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 663
Kudos: 499
Collections: Fic Facer$ 2019, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MomentsAway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsAway/gifts).



> Loosely inspired by the TV show "Prodigal Son", except fucked up lovers vs father/son relationship.
> 
> This is my second Fic Facer$ fic.  
> This fic will not be warm and fuzzy for extended lengths of time. Tags will be added as chapters are posted, so make sure you check those frequently.  
> Without further ado, I'll shut myself up and get on with the story.  
> ***COMMENTS CONTAIN SPOILERS IN EVERY CHAPTER***

💀💀💀

Sticky with sweat and spit, Castiel throws his head back. He’s stuffed full, can feel the thrusts all the way up in his throat, drying up his mouth; the euphoria keeps his neck bared, plush lips and sharp teeth nipping and sucking across the expanse, insistent enough to be noticeable, but not enough to bruise. He doesn’t close his eyes, though, not for even a fraction of a second - it’s too dangerous, and no matter how much pleasure is zig-zagging through his frayed nerves, he can’t let his guard down. His balls draw tight, and he knows his partner isn’t too far behind. Slamming himself down in the man’s lap, Castiel threads his fingers through sandy hair before gripping it painfully, and then he stills. The man beneath him lets out a pained groan, the mixture of the grip on his scalp and the sensation of Castiel’s warm, wet body suddenly stopping surely frustrating him.

“Where.” Castiel’s voice sounds like diamonds cutting gravel, fucked out and raw. He lowers his chin, his eyes boring into the man he’s straddling, meeting his furrowed brow, pupils so big they swallow up the color of his irises. When the man doesn’t respond right away, Castiel squeezes his thighs together, the strength of them squishing the man’s ribs uncomfortably.

“Compton. South Wilmington,” the man finally grinds out. His voice is whisky-rough and pitched low with his arousal, trembling audibly. The flush on his cheeks highlights his freckles.

“And?” Castiel’s knees tighten.

The man sucks air through his teeth, but his cock throbs inside of Castiel’s body, warning him of the impending release. “West Manville. The FedEx warehouse. Friday night, eleven o’clock.” 

“Good boy,” Castiel coos, his grip in the man’s hair lightening until it’s a caress, his thighs unclenching and his body rolling sinuously. “Now you may come.”

The man closes his eyes and tips his head back. He can’t hold onto Castiel, as his hands are cuffed behind the chair he’s seated on, so he plants his feet and starts fucking up into the man with wild abandon. The force of the thrusts make Castiel’s teeth clack until he clenches his jaw, reaching to start jerking himself off, no rhythm between them except their synchronizing breaths. He feels the man’s cock grow impossibly hard, feels it kick against his prostate, and then they both come at the same time, no noises passing between them as they ride out the waves. Castiel takes care to catch his release in his hand, even if some of it spatters onto his right hip, and as soon as he feels the dick inside him start to soften, he climbs off the man’s lap without preamble.

While the other man collects his breath, Castiel moves to the sink in the corner of the room, washing his hands with antibacterial soap. He dispenses two brown paper towels from the canister, dries his hands, wipes away the semen from his hip, and then tosses the soiled paper into the wastebasket below the sink. He grabs a washcloth, wetting it with cool water, and then returns to the bound man. He removes the condom, ties it off, and then cleans him perfunctorily, the touch almost clinical. Once they’re both clean Castiel moves towards the only other chair in the room, where his clothes are folded neatly. 

As he’s getting dressed, it’s silent. Straightening his tie is the last thing he does after making sure his suit is straight and not rumpled, his eyes sliding over towards the other man. Stepping towards him, the pupils of the man’s eyes have finally receded enough to reveal the stunning green of his irises, the corner of his plush mouth pulled up in an inviting smirk.

“No cuddling?” the man asks, unerringly charming.

“I would rather shoot myself in the head,” Castiel says evenly. He reaches towards the man’s lap, ignoring the suggestive wiggle of his hips, and then pulls up the zipper of his jumpsuit up to his collarbones.

“Now that’s just cold, Novak. I thought we had something special.”

“We do, Winchester,” Castiel says idly. He pulls a small notepad out of the pocket of his blazer, a small pencil twirling between his fingers before he starts scribbling. He doesn’t look at Winchester. “We fuck, and you tell me all the sordid details of the man who killed you.” He snaps his notebook shut, pockets it and the pencil, and doesn’t even look at Winchester before turning on heel, dress shoes clacking on the concrete floors. He knocks on the door to the cell, waits for the guard to let him out, and then promptly pushes Dean Winchester out of his mind.

He has work to do.

💀💀💀

“I don’t know what you do to that boy,” Chief Bobby Singer says, accepting the thick file Castiel hands him over his desk, “but you sure do make him sing.”

Once the file is free from his hands, Castiel takes a step back, lacing his fingers behind his back. “His intel, as of yet, has all been proven accurate and timely.”

“They really did a number on him, huh?” Singer says, and though his words might be considered thoughtful on paper, his tone of voice lets it be known that he could care less what Winchester had gotten into during his crime lord days. “Can’t believe his noggin is that full o’ stuff.”

Castiel says nothing, merely watching Singer’s fingers where they hold the file he’s currently perusing.

“Well, whatever you’re doin’,” Singer says, closing the file and setting it down to rest his elbows on the desk and steeple his fingers. His wise eyes flash with pride as he regards Castiel, “keep doin’ it. We’ve been tryna pin Crowley for decades, and with every visit you take to Winchester, we’re one step closer to bringin’ ‘im down.” He scratches the side of his nose idly. “You’ve really done well, Novak.” Dropping his hands so they rest on the desk, he leans forward a bit, making sure Castiel meets his gaze. “You deserve everything comin’ to ya, boy. Ain’t seen talent and drive like yours in… well, ever.” 

Castiel doesn’t smile, but he does nod his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Chief.” 

“Now go back to your desk and do… whatever it is you do when you’re not at the prison or out handcuffing bad guys.” 

Castiel allows the smallest of quirks to the corner of his lips. “Yes, Sir.”

💀💀💀

In the past six months alone Castiel single handedly has led operations to capture felons wanted all across the country for various crimes. Most of the felons are tried, prosecuted, and put to death, or at least put away where they won’t even breathe the same air as another human being for the rest of their lives. People have the general knowledge that Dean Winchester is Castiel’s informant, but of course, no one knows _how_ Castiel gets Dean to talk.

If it weren’t for a one night stand four years ago, Castiel wouldn’t even know who Dean is. That one night stand had bled into a beautiful morning after, a domestic haze surrounding them as they smooched and ate pancakes, caught up in the good feelings, the endorphins, the amazing orgasms… And it all was abruptly interrupted by the front door being blasted in with C4, knocking them both off their feet and pelting them with debris. 

Dean Winchester owed Fergus Crowley a debt, and the man came that morning to collect.

While Castiel was unconscious, Dean disappeared. He hadn’t seen who blasted into the house, his witness account stating that he’d stayed the night with a man named Michael Smith, who was now currently missing. Castiel had been let go, the officers trusting that a federal agent would be telling the truth to them, and Castiel had been wrought with worry. But when he looked up Michael Smith to inform next of kin that he’d been kidnapped, he found that Michael Smith didn’t exist. 

At least, the man who called himself Michael Smith didn’t exist.

There are plenty of Michael Smiths in the United States. 30.9 thousand, give or take. None of them were the man Castiel had been absolutely smitten with. He may have asked his friend Charlie, the tech girl, to do some extra digging, but she also came up empty. There weren’t even fake documents forged with the name Michael Smith. 

It was just an identity given for one night, and one night only.

Castiel hasn’t had a one night stand since. Not because he thinks they’re jinxed or anything (he does) but because he’d thrown himself into work. Michael Smith had been a blip on the radar, and a week after he’d been abducted, Crowley started getting bolder, started popping up on the radar more often than not. Castiel threw himself into his job, working his way up the ranks and through all the data they’d gathered about Crowley, and a year and a half ago, they’d caught a break in the case. Crowley had discarded one of his people, the body found in a dumpster. As the responding agent, Castiel had stayed with the body while he called for the coroner and a few other officers to comb over the scene.

He had looked down at the bloodied, mangled face, and had been rightly scared out of his mind when the eyes of the dead man opened, bloodshot and wide as saucers, a strangled scream ripping from his crushed throat. 

The man was alive.

The man was Michael Smith.

The man was Dean Winchester.

After he’d been rehabilitated in the hospital, Dean stood trial for his transgressions. It turned out that he’d always been working for Crowley, even when he and Castiel slept together - a fact that was omitted from everyone and everything, neither Dean nor Castiel speaking of it to anyone, let alone each other when they were in contact - and he was just as guilty as the devil man. Murder, arson, kidnapping, theft, drug dealing, prostitution; the list felt endless, and Dean was cited guilty for all of them.

He was carted off to prison to serve consecutive life sentences. New York abolished the death penalty, so even though many felt as though Dean was a waste of space, all they could do was make sure he saw the same four walls day in, day out, and nothing else.

Two weeks after being incarcerated, he asked to see Castiel. Since Castiel is a federal agent, and the first responder to Dean’s almost dumpsite, it had seemed to make sense to most that he’d want to see Castiel. Thank him for saving his life, or something like that.

It was nothing like that.

Sitting across from one another, Dean had smiled in the exact same way Michael had ensnared Castiel all those years ago, and then revealed something big.

Crowley “killed” him because he knew too much. It was something Dean never mentioned in court; it was just the general assumption that Crowley is a bad guy, and killing people is sort of his thing, even if they were technically his employee. Everyone assumed that Dean had just been an unfortunate victim, cast aside when he became useless. But he told Castiel that it was no flick of the wrist, Crowley’s hit on him; Crowley wanted him dead because Dean had so much information crammed into his head, he was a human Crime Wiki, specifically for Fergus Crowley and All His Dealings. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Crowley realized that getting rid of Dean was safer than keeping him.

If only whoever had carried out the hit had been a little more thorough.

So, Dean, beautiful and charming and vindictive as hell, said he’d be willing to help Castiel put Crowley away for good. Castiel had told him it might take a bit to convince a judge to allow him some privileges in prison, but that was where things got interesting. That was where Dean shooed out all of the guards, except one Benny Lafitte, and then _propositioned_ Castiel.

He had to be joking.

Dean was laying it all out: he and Castiel become regular fuck buddies. Every time Dean gives up any sort of info, he’s allowed to come. If he doesn’t give Castiel info, Castiel has all the power to blueball him and leave. Castiel had been, of course, unsure at first. Could Dean really be so base that all he wants in exchange for such incredible intel is a good lay? The more Castiel visited him, the more it seemed probable. Touch-starved, honey-mouth Dean Winchester is lucky he’s in solitary, or else he might be on the unpleasant end of the inmate hierarchy. Castiel knew it was power play, too; Dean offering himself up on a platter, allowing Castiel complete control over his body and mind in exchange for some dick.

It had been crude.

It had been unethical.

It had been too easy to agree.

For the past seven months Castiel and Dean have been meeting once a month, sometimes more, for their exchanging of events. Dean actually has a fairly decent cell; Castiel had been required to tell the warden that he’d be spending time with Dean, gleaning information, and as a reward for his good behavior, the warden had relocated Dean to a much nicer cell, outfitted with a decently comfortable bed, bookshelves, even a rug on the concrete floor. It wasn’t the Hilton, but it was leagues above what anyone else in the prison had. Dean behaved well for everyone. He was an upstanding citizen. 

Aside from the drugs, sex, and murder.

No one’s perfect.

Benny Lafitte guards Dean’s cell every time Castiel comes to visit. He keeps people from getting curious, and has kept his lips sealed. Castiel wonders what favors Dean exchanged with Lafitte in order to ensure that he’s on duty every time Castiel comes for his conjugal visit, but Castiel figures he doesn’t really care. As long as things are taken care of, he goes in, fucks Dean, gets the information, and then gets out.

It’s been so lucrative.

Castiel has been called ‘psycho’ by several of his fellow agents, for many reasons. Agreeing to Dean’s deal definitely made Castiel a bit more aware of his… slightly sociopathic inclinations, but he always passes his psych evals with flying colors. Superiors, who rarely work with him, are none the wiser. In the field, things are vastly different. Castiel is known for being a calm, cool and collected agent in all situations, in all varying stress levels. His decision making is so swift, and sometimes so black and white, it leaves other agents uneasy. Like that one time he shot a hostage in the leg so he could shoot the burglar in the forehead. Or that one time he drove his car off a cliff into a lake, still inside, so he could dislodge the criminal trying to strangle him from the backseat. Or maybe even that one time he seduced a cougar, fingering her until she squirted, so he could collect DNA samples for the case against her secret, illegal brothel.

So Castiel, occasionally, does things off-book. He gets _results_ , and sometimes slapped on the wrist, but he didn’t soar through the ranks by being a kiss-ass and a rule follower.

In any case, no one has a clue about the conjugal visits, and Castiel knows it’s a dangerous game to continue, but he’s not exactly gunning to call it quits. Dean, obviously, benefits from their escapades, but it’s also a way for Castiel to blow off extra steam, as well. He’s a bit more level-headed, now, with semi-frequent orgasms - less likely to injure or maim unsubs during apprehension.

Everyone wins.

Supervisory Special Agent Castiel James Novak will continue climbing the ranks, with a devil on his shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

💀💀💀

“I must have misheard you,” Castiel says blandly. He adjusts the elastic cuffs of the black vinyl gloves he’s wearing, staring down the man he currently has tied to a chair.

“You heard me,” the man - Alastair, according to Dean’s intel - sneers and spits, the glob landing on one of Castiel’s carefully polished dress shoes. “Fuck you.” 

“I think you vastly underestimate the situation,” Castiel says gravely. He takes a step closer to Alastair, folding his arms loosely over his chest, looking down his straight nose at the criminal. “This is the part where you tell me where the shipment is, or I start breaking your bones.”

“Fucking fed,” Alastair spits again, the goop landing on Castiel’s bicep now that Castiel is closer. A smarmy smile spreads over Alastair’s lips as he regards Castiel. He falls quiet, which is rather curious since he hasn’t shut up from the moment Castiel took him hostage, his beady eyes now looking over every millimeter of Castiel’s features. “Huh. You’re…” he sucks his teeth, before grinning as recognition lights in his eyes. There’s still some residual blood in his mouth from when Castiel punched him about ten minutes ago, his smile infinitely more grotesque. “Aren’t you Winchester’s boytoy?”

Castiel steels his nerves when they try to revolt. He stays perfectly still, not a single twitch betraying the gears whirring in his head as he tries to figure out _how_ Alastair would know that.

“Yeeeeeeessssss,” Alastair continues, nasally voice like nails on a chalkboard. “Yes, you’re the guy we blew up.” He smiles, an ugly thing. “Sorry about that. Looks like you healed up nice n’ fine, though.” He lets out a sigh. “Too bad we had to get rid of him. I’m sure he’d love to get in touch with you again,” Alastair’s gaze drags down Castiel’s body like a touch, “reconnect, and all that.”

“Tell me where the shipment is being passed off for transport,” Castiel pretends as though he hasn’t heard Alastair’s words at all.

Alastair lolls his head lazily, a murmur of a laugh leaving his lips. “You seen Winchester in prison yet? The way you two were cozied up that day, figure you’re the… romantic type.” 

Castiel’s fist snaps out before he can rein it in, his knuckles crunching into Alastair’s nose, blood immediately spewing from his nostrils as he lets out a pained yelp, his head cracking back with the force of the hit. Castiel is barely fazed, taking another step forward and gripping Alastair’s short hair, yanking his head around before leveling himself with the creep by bending at the waist.

“The shipment,” Castiel nearly growls, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.

Alastair lets out a high-pitched, reedy laugh, more blood spewing and spraying. Some of it splatters on to Castiel’s clothes. “Hit a nerve, did I? I was just guessing, you know. Winchester’s got a sweet ass, doesn’t he?” Somehow, Alastair has the energy and motor skill to let a dreamy expression filter over his features, eyes glazing over. “He was passed around like Thanksgiving turkey, you know. All of us carved a piece. Frequently.”

Another punch, this one to the temple. He’s surprised Alastair’s neck doesn’t snap with the force of his head jerking to the side. He’s properly dizzy and disoriented, his words coming out slurred.

“Moans like a fucking whore, even when you’re not payin’ him.”

“If you do not tell me where the shipment is going, I will kill you and go after the next goon that knows,” Castiel warns.

Alastair wheezes out a laugh, tipping his head back as he sends Castiel a, surely, amused smirk. Castiel can’t tell, the man’s face too bloody. “You’re a fed. You can’t kill me.”

Rolling his eyes, finally allowing a little emotion free, Castiel reaches into his shoulder holster to withdraw the revolver kept in there. He cocks it, the click echoing around the small storage shed, then presses the barrel against Alastair’s forehead. “I’m a different breed.”

Alastair’s pupils shrink as the realization hits him. His aloof attitude disappears immediately, anger twisting his broken features as he hisses furiously, “You’re a _fed_! Feds have rules!”

“Feds have rules,” Castiel concedes. His voice lowers, “I break them.”

Whatever Alastair was going to say next gets blasted out of his skull when Castiel pulls the trigger. His head practically explodes, point blank as it is, viscera and gore spattering on the concrete wall behind him. His body slumps in the chair, lifeless and useless. 

Sighing, Castiel pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and starts meticulously wiping down the gun. The only bullet in the chamber blew through Alastair’s head. He puts the gun in the dead man’s lap before he moves to the other side of the small room, stripping himself naked. He wipes himself down with baby wipes, then tosses them into a trash bag along with his soiled clothes. He changes his gloves, then reaches for a hanger on a nearby nail in the wall, his wardrobe change on it protected by a plastic cover. Changing is routine and within ten minutes he’s exiting the shed, locking it behind him, careful to hold the trash bag full of bloody clothes and wipes at arm’s length as he makes his way through the parking lot.

He’ll burn the evidence at home in his fireplace, clean it, and then set another fire just in case.

Tonight was a bust.

Alastair could have been arrested and added to Castiel’s long list of conquests. But he had recognized Castiel, somehow, and that unnerved the agent. He doesn’t know which of Crowley’s cronies were at Dean’s when they blew out the door; Castiel had been unconscious and _any_ of them could have gotten a look at him. Castiel is careful to keep his image out of the news, so the general public has no idea who he is or what he looks like, but he’s unsure about the criminals. They have their own network of information that they pass things through, and Castiel is starting to get suspicious. 

Yet, Alastair had been _surprised_ to recognize Castiel. He must have been among the men who kidnapped Dean. He wonders how many other men saw him, could recognize him if they came face to face again. It’s unnerving, the knowledge weighing heavy on his mind and in his gut. If there are more people out there that could recognize him, that’s more people that can place him with Dean. 

_No one_ knows that Castiel had been with Dean that day.

If anyone in law enforcement found out…

He hastens his steps, pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

He needs to bump up his visit to the prison to tomorrow.

💀💀💀

“Hey, baby,” Dean greets as Castiel shuts the solid steel door behind him. “Need me that bad, huh?”

“Who saw me?” Castiel demands, not even bothering with a greeting. He usually doesn’t. That’s Dean’s frivolous department.

“What?” Dean clearly senses that Castiel isn’t here for their regularly scheduled rut. 

“The day of the explosion,” Castiel says, stepping towards Dean, who is sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning back on his hands. “When you were picked up. Who all saw me?”

Dean’s brow furrows as he thinks. Castiel knows he’s taking this seriously, because he’s not making any jokes. Letting out a breath, Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth when he seems to come up blank. “Three guys. I dunno who, though, I was barely conscious when they were grabbin’ me.” 

“Alastair?” Castiel presses.

Dean’s head whips up so fast Castiel thinks he hears it crack. There’s fury in those pretty green eyes, Dean’s features hardening into a scowl. “How do you know Alastair?”

“His brains are currently decorating a storage shed I rented in Crowley’s name,” Castiel says. He reaches for the wooden chair at the desk, dragging it towards him so he can sit on it. 

“Shit,” Dean replies. “He recognized you?”

“I was gathering information on tomorrow night’s local shipment,” Castiel explains. He sits with his back ramrod straight, feet planted, palms over his knees. His nails press lightly into the material of his slacks. “He recognized me after about twenty minutes.” He lets out a short breath, muttering, “Must have knocked it loose.”

“Fuck,” Dean lets out a humorless chuckle. “Fuck, if he was one of the goons that got me, you can bet Lucifer and Asmodeus were the other two.”

Castiel squints. “What kind of names are those?”

“Fuck if I know,” Dean shrugs, pressing his palm against his forehead. “Nicknames or some shit, I dunno. Fuck, Cas, this ain’t good.”

“I’m aware,” Castiel says evenly.

“Those three always worked collections together,” Dean explains. He tongues the inside of his cheek, staring unseeing at Castiel’s knees. “They were the ones who carried out Crowley’s hit on me.”

A tense silence falls over them. They don’t often talk about Dean’s “death”, mostly because Castiel is sure Dean has some repressed PTSD from whatever he endured between being blown up and then later tossed into a dumpster, and Castiel can’t say that he’s overly fond of the man, but he has at least some modicum of respect for him.

Though, maybe ‘respect’ isn’t the right word.

“How can I get in touch with Lucifer and Asmodeus?” Castiel asks.

Dean snorts. “You can’t. They’re second to Crowley. Even I only ever saw ‘em once and that was ‘cause they took me out like trash.”

Castiel resists snapping something rude, but reels himself in at the last second. If Dean knew, he’d tell him. Dean has been nothing but forthcoming. Granted, he’s not bouncing on Castiel’s dick, so it’s hard to say if he’ll actually reveal any info outside of their agreement. Relaxing his posture, Castiel allows himself to slouch down in his seat. Elbows on the arms of the chair, he starts rubbing his temples with his fingertips, trying to think on whether or not the bureau has information on Lucifer and Asmodeus.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice is quiet. Castiel doesn’t look up, but he grunts in acknowledgment. “How bad is it that they know who you are?”

“Very bad, I assume,” Castiel sighs. He drops one hand, rubbing his mouth with the other before resting the side of his head in his palm, regarding Dean quietly. Dean’s leaned back against the wall, legs criss crossed in front of him, hands limp in his lap as he gazes back at Castiel. It’s an oddly sobering moment. The kind of quiet reserved for people with a much more intimate relationship.

The kind of quiet like the quiet morning after, when Castiel had hugged Dean from behind and littered kisses down the slope of his neck while Dean flipped pancakes. 

“Should we stop?” Dean asks, his voice uncharacteristically unsure. “I can just give you the info, Cas. We don’t gotta fuck around like we been doin’.”

“Why would you change the deal?” Castiel asks, curious and surprised. “My life is in danger and suddenly you’re feeling chivalrous?”

Dean narrows his eyes, his temper flashing in the verdant depths. He checks it, though, a cocky smirk spreading over his lips instead. “I’d hate to give up your fine ass, Novak, but if you’re dead I can’t have half as much fun with you.”

“Do you ever think about anything other than getting your dick wet?” Castiel asks dryly, thankful to fall into old habits with Dean instead of the serious route their conversation was heading down. Things are tense, things are heavy, and Castiel isn’t quite sure how to navigate that with the man. 

“Not with your pretty eyes in the room,” Dean says, batting his lashes coyly.

Castiel stands, palms running down his thighs as he does so to smooth the creases in his slacks. “I will see if Charlie can get any information on those two.”

“Leaving so soon?” Dean asks, shooting for casual and missing by needy. He covers it up by flopping onto his side on the bed, patting the mattress invitingly. As far as prison beds goes, Dean’s is actually surprisingly comfortable. 

“This is as uncomfortably close to pillow talk as I’m willing to get,” Castiel says, calling them both out on that weird moment, as well as dismissing it all in one sentence. “Our deal stands, Dean. I will return on the scheduled date.”

“Fine,” Dean grouses, unable to cover up how disappointed he actually sounds.

Suddenly overcome with the need to comfort Dean, Castiel grits his teeth and turns on heel, tightening his tie as he heads towards the door. He knocks, Benny opens the door, and then he doesn’t even say bye before heading away from Dean’s cell.

The door clangs shut behind him. 

An odd weight settles in Castiel’s gut.

💀💀💀

“Hnh, ah,” Dean squirms, flushed hot and near tears. His hands are cuffed but they’re in front of him today so he can keep himself propped up on all fours while Castiel buries his mouth against his hole, licking, sucking, his finger sliding in alongside his tongue every so often. “Mmm baby, baby yes, that feels so fucking good…”

Castiel pulls away with a pant and a slurp, biting Dean’s left ass cheek sharply, reveling in the dark, tooth-shaped marks he leaves behind. Dean drops down on his elbows to rock his hips back, knees sliding farther apart, spine dipping. Two fingers get sucked into Dean’s greedy hole, Castiel holding them there while he reaches for the lube bottle with his free hand so he can dribble more onto where Dean’s rim is doing its best to break Castiel’s fingers at the knuckle. It’s messy, it’s always so messy with Dean and Castiel loves it. 

Loves that Dean lets go for him, submits to him, does basically whatever Castiel wants for the hour they have together. If Castiel wants to sit on Dean’s cock, he’s in control. If Castiel wants to fuck Dean, he’s in control. In any and everything that they do Dean _submits_ , and Castiel should be careful, has to be careful, because Dean Winchester is turning into an addiction more than a recreation. 

But right here, right now, with the head of his cock nudging into Dean’s tight hole, Castiel can’t be bothered to care about the semantics of their bizarre, toxic relationship. He’s not blind to Dean’s emotions, knows that the man harbors _feelings_ for him, but he can’t focus on any of that when he’s so busy with work. Not to mention the fact that Dean’s _incarcerated_ and Castiel is a _federal agent_ \- he’d have to be mad to consider having any sort of relationship with him. 

Then again… what are they doing, right now?

“Please please _please_ , hnh, fuck, _Cas_ -” There are tears streaming down Dean’s ruddy, freckled cheeks. “Need you so bad, please-”

Castiel’s not quite sure why he does it, but he wraps his arms around Dean’s middle, draping himself over the man’s slightly larger frame as he buries himself to the hilt with a sharp snap of his hips. Dean muffles a sob into his forearms when Castiel starts grinding his hips, filthy, dirty, barely pulling out at all as he does his best to press his cock against every nook and cranny inside Dean’s body.

“Oh my _Godddd_ ,” Dean whuffs out, bucking backwards, trying to get Castiel deeper. “I’m- fuck, fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me-” 

Withdrawing from the pseudo-hug, Castiel puts his hands on Dean’s flank and slams into him. The other man stays balanced sturdy, the muscles in his back and shoulders flexing and rolling beautifully, Castiel’s eyes drawn to appraise and absorb the sight. The pace is brutal, it always is, Castiel’s hips angled expertly to hit Dean exactly where he needs it most. Curiously, Castiel presses his thumb to Dean’s rim, slick with lube, the slide of the condom against his thumb against the vevelty slickness of Dean’s hole entrancing him. After a few thrusts he applies a bit of pressure and his thumb pops into Dean’s channel, the man letting out a wrecked, pleasured sob. 

“Holy fuck yeah, Cas, fucking gape me,” Dean pants, his voice with barely any pitch as he pleads. 

Obligingly, and honestly quite intrigued himself, Castiel withdraws his thumb and tries to figure out how to best stretch Dean with his fingers while still keeping full range of motion. Any angle for his fingers makes his wrist cramp, so he slows down while he thinks, things finally clicking together in his head. He pulls out of Dean’s body with a grunt to match Dean’s gasp, shifting to sit down on the bed with his back to the concrete wall, the cold seeping through his dress shirt as he hauls Dean up with him. Dean, always impressed and aroused by Castiel’s strength, practically mewls as he’s manhandled into position. 

Straddling Castiel’s lap, Dean sits back down on his cock without missing a beat. Now facing each other, Castiel bends his knees slightly, working his arms under Dean’s thighs until his fingers can spread his cheeks apart as he bounces. Much better. His fingers creep inwards until they feel where Dean’s hole is swallowing him, and with a bit of dexterity, they both groan when both of Castiel’s index and middle fingers get engulfed as well. Dean’s body stretches to accommodate, and for a moment, they pause to fully take in the sensation. Dean being opened wide, Castiel being squeezed tight.

Opening his eyes, Castiel isn’t surprised to meet Dean’s blissed out, fucked out gaze. Their foreheads are almost touching, their noses almost bumping when Castiel starts bucking his hips again, and for a moment, things feel… suspended. Castiel can tune out the dark cell, the quiet of the room, the coldness of it; can ignore Dean’s jumpsuit rumpled in a pile on the floor, can almost not pay attention to the cuffs around Dean’s wrists where he holds his bound hands against Castiel’s chest. Like this, they’re almost lovers.

Dean’s fists rest tentatively on Castiel’s chest, his arms likely tired from holding them up. Castiel allows it, bouncing Dean on his lap, listening to the noises that leave his beautiful, plush lips with increasing urgency. Castiel knows what it’s like to taste those lips, to kiss them, to have them meet his own like magnets…

When Dean licks his lips, he knows he’s been caught staring. Dean doesn’t offer any cocky words though, doesn’t preen or try to entice him into a kiss. Castiel closes his eyes and tips his head back, removing his fingers from Dean’s tight hole to grip his hips, increasing the pace and ferocity of his thrusts. He can’t look at him anymore. He might do something stupid. 

Like kiss him.

Castiel sure is thinking a lot about kissing Dean, this round. 

“Cas,” Dean whines. Castiel knows that tone. He reaches with a hand to strip Dean’s cock, jerking it tightly in counter rhythm to his thrusts, cracking his eyes open just in time to see Dean’s head tip back, the flush on his body deepening, sweat trickling down his brow as he works his strong, bowed legs to help Castiel fuck up into him. “Yeah, yeah, mmnh, so good baby…!”

Dean usually comes before Castiel. It’s not a rule, but Castiel likes the power play of being able to hold out until after Dean finds release. Sometimes he chooses not to orgasm at all, enjoying the way Dean whines and begs for his cum and how desperate he is for it the next time they get together. 

Right now, with Dean spilling wetly over his fist, his ejaculate thick and creamy, his lips parted and his eyes glazed over, Castiel can’t hold on. He doesn’t want to. He comes almost immediately after Dean, drawing his body forward as he buries himself to the hilt and crests, biting sharply into the meat of Dean’s shoulder, tasting copper on his tongue as they ride out the waves together.

They don’t immediately spring apart, like they normally do.

No, for a moment Castiel’s arms are around Dean’s body, Dean’s hands pinned between their chests. Dean rests in Castiel’s lap, his softening cock still buried, Dean’s feet tangled with Castiel’s calves. It’s still, quiet, the only sound between them their thumping hearts and irregular breathing. Slick with sweat, Castiel’s foot slips slightly, jarring them both, spurring them into action and breaking the temporary bubble they’d been stuck in. 

Dean lies out on the bed. Castiel gets up, always able to find his sea legs faster than Dean, so he can grab a cloth, wet it, and toss it in Dean’s general direction. They clean themselves up quietly. Technically Benny is in charge of cuffing and uncuffing Dean but Castiel has his own key for their sessions; once he’s fully dressed he walks over towards where Dean lies in a puddle, reaching down to unlock the cuffs and free him of the bonds. Dean is required to be cuffed when he has (regular) visitors, and as stated, Castiel is quite fond of the power play between them, but today Dean had greeted Castiel fully naked, and while Castiel had enjoyed that gift, he’s not exactly eager to help Dean get dressed again. That’s too intimate.

So he turns his back, adjusting his shirt cuffs, straightening his tie. He’d stripped everything but his shirt for this session, and in retrospect he should have just taken it off as well, because the material clings slightly to him, damp with cooling sweat. By the time he’s done fidgeting with his clothes he turns around to see Dean in his prison scrubs, light blue in color, the handcuffs on his nightstand as he resumes lying comfortably on the bed. He doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes as he settles down, though. 

Figuring that Dean isn’t in a chatty mood, Castiel turns to leave.

“Charlie’ll find ‘em,” Dean says softly. Castiel almost doesn’t hear him, so he turns around to regard the other man. Dean still isn’t looking at him, those pretty eyes closed as he draws up the blankets. “They won’t get you.”

Castiel is unsure if he should be touched that Dean cares so much. He should, shouldn’t he? Be thrilled that someone cares about his life and whether or not he continues to live it? But as he observes Dean, beautiful, sumptuous Dean, Castiel can’t get a pin on what emotion he’s feeling, in regards to Dean’s affections. 

“Goodnight, Dean.” 

It's the first time since they began this venture that they've fucked without Dean giving up intel.

It’s the first time he’s bid Dean farewell.

He's on thin ice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strap in and re-read the tags.  
> this isn't edited. mistakes are mine.

💀💀💀

Charlie does find them. Lucifer and Asmodeus don’t really try to hide themselves, especially with ostentatious names like that. With the information in a file burning his fingers to ash as he holds it, incriminating as it is, Castiel walks through the bureau building to head to his office. He puts the file in his briefcase along with a few others, turns off his desk lamp, and then closes up for the night. The drive home is quiet. He doesn’t even turn on the radio. Once he’s home he moves to his work study, opening his briefcase to pull out the only file that matters to him, carelessly tossing the rest onto the spare lounge chair in the room that never seems to hold a body, just extra things Castiel doesn’t want to worry about at the moment.

He has to plan this _very_ carefully. The only issue is that… well, things are personal. Of course, Castiel has always been driven to put criminals behind bars, or kill those who force his hand, but for some reason ending Crowley and his entire operation sits in Castiel’s mind like a ticking time bomb. He needs to do it. Charlie has given him all the information required in order to make a plan.

He _can_ do it.

The only issue… is that he’ll need Dean.

Because of course he does. Dean has every last bit of information tucked away in his deceptively intelligent brain, and Castiel can't forget his deal with the man in the first place. 

Orgasm for info.

Settling that thought into his brain and silently berating himself for their last session consisting only of sex and not of Intel, Castiel sits down at his desk to start poring over the information Charlie provided on Lucifer and Asmodeus.

Ten minutes into staring at grainy security cam footage, his phone rings. 

"Novak," he answers, putting his phone on speaker.

"It's Henriksen."

Leaning back in his cushy leather chair, Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose, disrupting his glasses where they're perched. "What."

"We've got a lead on Roman," Henriksen says without preamble. Castiel doesn't like Victor, per se, but he does appreciate their common disinterest in small talk. "He's making a drop tonight."

Castiel glances at the clock. It's nearing ten p.m. and he's loathe to put these files aside, but Roman is a big fish the whole bureau has been trying to get at for months. He's, according to sources and all gathered information, the ringleader of a human trafficking ring. Castiel has wanted to nab him from principle alone for what feels like forever. 

"What other info do you have?"

"Two blonde girls," Henriksen says, like he's discussing the weather. "Between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, set to be sold tonight to a buyer who only goes by the name 'Alpha'."

"Do we have someone on the inside?"

"Chambers tipped us off, said the two blondes went missing from the streets a week ago. She saw them get into a van matching the description of one of Roman's pickup vehicles."

"How do we know this 'Alpha' will be buying tonight?"

"Chambers put up an ad for herself on the dark web. Said a guy with 'Alpha' as a screen name told her she'd look really pretty as a centerpiece for the," he pauses as though he's reading from something, "'blonde bookends' he just bought."

Castiel can't even find it within himself to be disgusted. He's seen (and done) too much to be shocked by anything any criminal says. This is a matter of children, though, so Castiel pulls his glasses off of his nose and drops them onto the desk tiredly.

"What time?"

"Oh-one-hundred."

"I'll be there."

Three shots of espresso and a round of breakfast for dinner later, Castiel meets Henriksen at the bureau. It's the two of them and a small team of four, with S.W.A.T. backup waiting for the go ahead. They lock, load, and then caravan out to where Roman had said he would be making the drop, a tense silence stifling the inside of the SUV. Castiel pays it no mind. This is a milk run. If anything he's excited, in his own twisted way, to see Roman and take him down.

They pull into the docks, because Roman is completely unoriginal as a criminal. The team disperses from the SUV, everyone checking in on their communication device to make sure they're all connected. Castiel makes headway to where he and Henriksen agreed would be the most logical location for a handoff;Henriksoen is on Castiel's six, where they both trust him to be. For all Castiel is not a team player, he and Henriksen do alright.

Raising his fist as they come to the end of a shipment container, Castiel drops to a crouch, peering around the edge. Behind him Henriksen stays quiet as a ghost. Castiel sees two nondescript black sedans parked closely to one another; he surveys the area closest to them and isn't disappointed to see a few big, burly men hanging out. Waiting a few more minutes yields the arrival of one of Roman's vans; Castiel forces his heart rate to calm, breathing deeply as he observes.

Roman gets out of the passenger side of the van. A Hispanic man gets out of the driver's seat, the pair of them rounding towards where the other men are waiting. At this distance it's impossible to hear what they're saying, or be able to read their lips, so they have to wait for the perfect moment to pounce.

It comes only a few moments later, when the Hispanic man opens the large sliding door of the van. Two blonde teenage girls are yanked out roughly, their hands bound and their mouths gagged.

Castiel lifts his wrist to his mouth, "I've got a visual. Standby for takedown."

There's an affirmative chorus in his ears as he hears Henriksen shift behind him. Henriksen, despite being a hotshot himself, would probably follow Castiel into hellfire. He's a good man to have.

The girls get jostled a bit more. Their shrieks and yells are muffled by the rags in their mouths; Castiel is amused to see that rather than scared, they look pissed off. Chambers mentioned that the girls, Claire and Jo, were regular spitfires. Castiel wonders if, after all this is said and done, they would be interested in being on the right side of the law.

A very large Black man gets out of one of the sedans. He's tall, imposing, and doesn't seem to scare the girls at all. Roman shakes his hand, accepting the briefcase offered to him.

Castiel lifts from his crouch to start quickly, but quietly approaching, knowing Henriksen is hot on his heels. They get behind one of the sedans unnoticed, and this close they can hear the words being exchanged; Castiel lifts a finger to his mouth unnecessarily, keen on listening.

"They are in fine condition," Alpha says, his voice too rich and velvety to be anything but creepy. "As always, you deliver me the best product."

"Only the best for you, Alpha," Roman replies, his voice oily and slick.

"You treat me so well," Alpha says, consideringly. "So I must ask: why are we surrounded by federal agents?"

"Excuse me?" Roman tries to sound indignant, but there's a trace of paranoia in his voice.

"This is a bust, Mr. Roman," Alpha explains patiently.

Castiel and Henriksen exchange incredulous looks.

"A pity that you would slip up like this. Now who am I going to rely on for my supply?"

"I didn't-" Roman sputters with his fury. "This is not a setup!" 

Castiel stands, clearly visible on the other side of the hood of the car. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his FBI bullet proof vest securely fastened over his navy blue button down, his government-issue glock held steady in his grip. "Sorry to ruin your evening, gentlemen. FBI, don't move."

Claire and Jo's eyes go wide with shock, right along with Roman. Alpha looks unimpressed, but he quickly gets back into his car, shutting and locking the door as the engine starts up.

Castiel lowers his weapon to shoot out his front tire.

The discharge of his weapon spurs Roman into action; he grabs Claire by the neck, using her as a human shield as he pulls a gun out of his pants to train it on her temple. Jo takes the opportunity to run - Roman shoots after her, missing just barely. In the chaos of the girls screaming and Roman being distracted Castiel fires again, this time lodging the bullet in Roman's neck. He drops Claire in surprise, gagging and burbling as blood spews from the wound. Claire runs directly for Henriksen, who is waving her over, and Castiel sees Roman's gun rise too late, the bullet hitting Claire square in the back and killing her instantly. Jo screams from a few feet away, calling out for her friend. The back door of the sedan opens and Alpha's large hands grab Jo as she tries to run past, pulling her into the car and slamming the door shut. 

Without a second thought Castiel empties his clip into the windshield. The car's engine revs up, tires squealing, still in park as it fishtails and goes nowhere. Castiel rushes to the back door, barely catching the handle to yank it open. From inside Alpha shoots, sharp pain blossoming in Castiel's left shoulder. He ignores it, shoving his body into the car. He didn't reload his gun. Thinking quick, he smashes his elbow into Alpha's nose, feeling the satisfying crunch as he grabs Jo with his other hand, manhandling her out of the car and throwing her onto the pavement. The car is still wiggling with the dead foot weighing down the pedal, Castiel's feet unable to stay on the ground. There's shouting, yelling, some more gunshots, and then finally Castiel gets a grip on the huge man, dragging him bodily out of the car and pinning him down to the ground. With his knee between Alpha's shoulders Castiel gets the gun out of the man's slack hands, pressing the barrel tightly to the back of his head.

"It should be obvious, but… don't move."

Alpha wheezes beneath him, but relaxes in defeat. Castiel finally looks at his surroundings; Jo is lying over Claire's dead body, sobbing into her disheveled blonde locks. Henriksen is cuffing a few cronies while a few other agents direct each other to start gathering clues and evidence. 

Heart finally slowing, Castiel pulls his handcuffs from his belt and restrains Alpha. He sits the man up, then moves towards the car to get the dead guy's foot off the gas and turn off the key. As he turns around, wiping sweat from his brow, Henriksen approaches, his mouth turned down in a vicious frown.

"Chief ain't gonna like this, Novak."

"Chief never likes anything I do," Castiel reminds him. "But I fill out all the paperwork so we usually call it even."

Henriksen looks over at where Jo is being dragged away from Claire by an EMT. "Still. Coulda gone different."

"It always can," Castiel agrees.

"You hit?" Henriksen suddenly asks, grabbing Castiel's left wrist.

Hissing in pain, Castiel looks at his shoulder, his shirt and vest covered in blood. Now that the adrenaline is fading the pain starts to seep in, Castiel giving a stilted nod. "It appears so."

"Shit, man. Are you even human?" Henriksen wonders aloud.

Castiel shrugs him off as goes towards the EMT. 

Castiel isn't sure whether he's human, either

💀💀💀

As Castiel and Victor had discussed, Chief Singer is pissed. And as Castiel had patiently explained to Victor, Chief Singer’s irritation lessens considerably when Castiel files the paperwork, no questions asked, in a timely manner. For all intents and purposes, Castiel does his best to look downtrodden, sad, guilty, that a girl died during his operation. She might not have been innocent, but she had been a child, and children always have a shot at redemption… should they live to see it.

The truth is, Castiel isn’t that affected by the fact that a teenage girl died on his watch. He thinks he should be worried about his lack of reaction, knows that he should really examine his disregard for human life, but he can’t. As much as he’s unbothered by a teen girl’s life, he’s very much worried about his own. There are too many unknown variables about anyone, _anyone_ being able to put him in Dean’s apartment the day Dean got blown up and, years later, the day Dean got discovered. He’s on edge for days; irritated, short-tempered, just thinking about whether or not anyone at the bureau knows, but aren’t saying anything, conducting an investigation in secret behind his back so they can spring it on him when he’s least suspecting. 

Thinking about it logically, Castiel knows that no one knows. Well- no one on this side of law enforcement. One key player has already been eliminated from the board, in the form of Alastair’s untimely, but not unfortunate demise. Castiel has been wracking his brains, trying to figure out how to arrange the other pieces so that he can finally take down Crowley, but the more he moves, the more thugs he takes down, it only becomes more and more apparent that he needs to remove Lucifer and Asmodeus from the equation. 

If he can even get to them in the first place.

The file Charlie had compiled for both of them at first seemed bare, but the more Castiel looks at it and compares it to other crimes in the area, the more gets fleshed out. Dean had said that Lucifer, Asmodeus, and Alastair worked collections in their syndicate, so Castiel had turned one of his office walls into a war board; photos, police reports, and red string criss-cross the cork as he tacks things up and puts up sticky notes. Based on provided information, or, more telling, lack thereof, Castiel starts to place the three men at various different events. It seems as though they are involved in every single unsolved murder with cold trails leading in the vague direction of Crowley. Dean had made them sound like errand boys, but as Castiel compiles more and more evidence and information, it’s clear that the three have much more sway.

Surely Dean wouldn’t downplay their importance. He hadn’t, really, but at the same time… Castiel has a strange feeling. Dean hadn’t seemed any sort of relieved that Alastair was dead, and when he talked about Lucifer and Asmodeus it was with an odd sense of resignation. 

All of Crowley’s gang knows that Dean is currently in lockup. Some of his minions are locked behind the same bars. It’s through favor of the warden that Dean is isolated as he is. Alastair’s words about Dean being the communal fucktoy haven’t quite left Castiel’s brain, even though it doesn’t really surprise him; he knows Dean is, _was_ promiscuous, and given the life he was leading, it was probably safer to be in people’s beds than in their crosshairs. Castiel checks the visitor log every time he’s in - he is the only one visiting Dean Winchester outside of guards. So at the very least, incarcerated members of Crowley’s gang can’t get their hands on him. 

Dirty cops, however, are a completely different story.

Castiel sends a clipped text to Charlie, and ten minutes later an e-mail titled **BENJAMIN T. LAFITTE** pings in his inbox. 

It doesn’t hurt to check all leads, flimsy or not.

💀💀💀

Castiel’s wrist-deep in Dean’s gaping, puffy asshole, his fingers curled and his knuckles moving rhythmically against Dean’s prostate. He’s not thrusting so much as grinding, eyes glued to the way Dean’s rim stretches around the taper of his wrist. Dean’s on his hands and knees, Castiel kneeling behind him, ignoring his own weeping erection in favor of listening to all the different ways he can get Dean to hiccup and moan. The time Dean had demanded Castiel gape him didn’t leave his head, and after extensive research and then painstaking prep upon arrival, they finally got to this point. Dean’s entire body is trembling, a livewire, barely able to keep himself up on his knees but doing his best to stay there so he doesn’t accidentally fall and get injured.

Castiel’s other hand is splayed possessively over Dean’s ribs, feeling the stuttery inhales and exhales as he clenches and unclenches his fist. That arm is doing as little as possible, the soreness from the bullet wound still causing his muscles to ache. Slowly, very slowly, Castiel pulls his hand out until his thumb pops free, spreading his fingers wide, watching Dean’s hole gape, drinking in the wet, sticky insides of his body, thumbing against the rim in a light massage as he stretches Dean to what probably isn’t capacity, but damn near close. Dean keens, dropping down to his elbows now that he feels safe to do so, hanging his head for a moment before burying his face into the sheets. 

“Fuck, oh my God, Cas,” Dean moans, long and languid, voice deep. The flush on his body is spread over his back, down his thighs and up to his hairline, a sheen of sweat reflecting the dim lamp they’ve left on by the bed, the fluorescent lights overhead turned off to bathe them in an almost uncomfortably intimate light. 

“Can you come like this?” Castiel asks, although it comes out as more of a demand, than anything. 

Dean nods frantically, “Fuck yeah, fist me again,” as he wriggles an arm so he can start pulling on his nearly purple cock. “Gonna make me squirt, Cas.” 

Carefully curling his fingers once more, tucking his thumb in, Castiel watches, entranced, as Dean’s body sucks his fist back in. Dean’s rim sucks around his wrist like a baby with a pacifier, insistent, wet and hot, and when Dean orgasms Castiel thinks his wrist is going to snap. Dean moans loud, long, and satisfied, his climax lasting and lasting as his walls clench around Castiel’s fist and wrist, like his body is still trying to suck him in even further, even though he released. 

Very carefully, once Dean’s moans peter out, Castiel pulls his hand free of Dean’s ass. The man flops down onto the bed, boneless, allowing his knees to stay slightly spread so Castiel gets another beautiful eyeful of his gaping hole. Gently, Castiel feels around the stretched muscle, making sure it hasn’t prolapsed, ignoring Dean’s soft coos at the impromptu massage. Deeming Dean in perfect physical health (if not a bit sore), Castiel sits back on his haunches. He wraps his fingers around his own cock, now, the same fingers that had been inside Dean, jerking himself off slowly. Dean must hear the movement of slick skin on skin because he turns his head so his hazy, green eyes can look at Castiel over his shoulder, a fucked-out smirk spread on his lips.

“Yeah, baby, gonna cum all over my gaping hole?” Dean purrs, toes curling as he gets his arms under him, sinuously lifting his hips, knees sliding through the rumpled sheets as he presents his ass. His rim is the size of a golf ball, loose and sloppy; Dean bears down and the muscles inside flex and twitch, clean and wet. 

Growling, Castiel reaches out to put his hand on the small of Dean’s back, forcing him to lie on the bed once more. Dean goes readily, though his hips still cant up, hole a tempting destination for Castiel’s cock. Hovering inches away, Castiel strokes his cock with a fervor he hasn’t had since he was a pubescent boy, the sound of his wet skin slapping mixed with Dean’s encouraging, filthy words pushing him closer and closer to climax.

“Fuck yeah, Cas, gonna mark me up? Make me yours? Put your cum in my gaping hole, Cas, I’m so empty, need it so bad,” Dean reaches behind himself, grabbing either side of his fleshy ass cheeks, spreading them apart, his rectum shiny and wet as Castiel devours it with his eyes. 

Moving his hand from the small of Dean’s back to slap one of his meaty cheeks, the contact causes Dean to moan with satisfaction, a noise that only increases when Castiel’s ejaculate finally erupts and spurts onto his gaping hole, hot, claiming, sticky. Castiel watches as rope after rope spills, his aim too true at first, a giant glob falling into the abyss of Dean’s anus and getting sucked inside faster than he could blink. The rest of his cum covers freckles and the remains of his handprint and Castiel, drunk off of orgasm, high on Dean, dives down to thrust his tongue into Dean’s stretched hole, chasing after his own spunk only to push it further in when he finds it. He collects the rest of his cum off of Dean’s skin and uses his long tongue to push it into Dean’s gape and, well, now condoms seem pretty obsolete with this display. He knows they’re both clean, but condoms had been another way to keep Dean on a leash. Now, though, tasting the mixture of his ejaculate riding the musk of Dean’s asshole, Castiel is fairly sure they won’t use them ever again, so long as he can help it.

It’s so tempting to lie out next to Dean, to sprawl out on the bed, relax his muscles after how tightly he’s been coiled for the past hour, stretching Dean open meticulously and carefully while ignoring his own arousal. Instead Castiel shifts to get off of the bed, planting his feet firmly to quell the wobble in his knees, rising to stand and stretching his arms over his head. 

When he catches sight of Dean’s expression and the way Dean’s own hand has reached back behind himself to feel his stretched rim, fingers swiping through the cum leaking out of it, it takes all of Castiel’s willpower to look away.

“How did Benny come to be the guard to stand watch during our exchanges?” Castiel asks, formality seeping into his voice to hide just how fucked out and amazing he feels. He walks over to the sink in the corner of the room, pleased to note that Dean had stocked microfiber towels today. He dampens one, using it to gently wipe himself down. 

“Knew Benny on the outside,” Dean doesn’t try to hide how pleased he is in wake of his orgasm. “Met ‘im in middle school. Grew up in a shithole town together.” 

Surprised at the history between the two, Castiel can’t help but glance to the solid steel door that stands between them and the guard. “I see.” Castiel wrings the cloth, wets it with warmer water, wrings it halfway and then walks back over towards Dean. He drops the cloth on the small of Dean’s back, not bothering to hide his pleased smirk when Dean starts in surprise. “That doesn’t answer how he became your personal watchdog.” 

Grumbling, Dean brings his knees under himself and grabs the cloth, reaching back to gently start mopping up the mess of lube and cum. “Small towns n’ all, people either end up good, bad, or boring. Benny always wanted to be a cop, like his daddy.”

“Is he dirty?” Castiel asks, bending to pick up his boxers and pull them on. 

“Nah,” Dean chuckles fondly. “He likes me, but he won’t break the law for me. He was a guard at Louisiana Correctional, but when he saw my trial on TV he filed for a transfer to work here. He’s a good guy. Good worker. He was also the first guard to ask specifically to be assigned to my watch- too many of 'em scared of my connection to Crowley.” 

“I find it difficult to believe he’s your guard for sentimental reasons,” Castiel says as he finishes dressing. He adjusts his shirt cuffs dispassionately, stomping down the weird possessive flame burgeoning in his gut. 

“Whether or not you believe it, it is what it is,” Dean says. When he’s done cleaning himself he flops onto his side, fluffing his pillow up and bringing it between his elbow and his ear so he can look at Castiel. “Me n’ Benny… we were like brothers. Even though he was so good an’ I was so bad.” 

“In middle school I can’t imagine you got up to too much trouble,” Castiel comments.

“Had my first john when I was ten,” Dean says, no emotion to his voice. “Stuffed crack up my ass for a friend when I was fourteen. That was social trouble. Had a lot worse at home way before then.” 

Unnerved by Dean’s sudden flat tone, Castiel glances down at him. Dean’s pretty spring greens are shuttered by his ginger lashes, brow furrowed slightly as he stares at some point past Castiel’s waist. He doesn’t close off a lot, emotionally. He’s usually almost too open and honest with Castiel. Then again, Castiel hasn’t really asked about his past beyond his years with Crowley. 

“How did Benny stay on the straight and narrow?” Castiel asks.

“‘Cause he’s just a good guy,” Dean says, finally with some emotion. There’s that fondness again, the tone of voice that twists viciously in Castiel’s gut and nearly makes him nauseous. 

“And you’re not?” 

Dean snorts, meeting Castiel’s gaze. “I look like a good guy to you?” 

“You’ve never seemed particularly evil to me, Dean,” Castiel replies honestly. “You’ve made bad decisions and tangled yourself up in things unimaginable, but I have a hard time believing you’re evil at your core.”

“Nah, I wasn’t born evil,” Dean concedes with a nod of his head. “Sure got taught well, though.” 

Debating between asking more and shutting Dean down completely, Castiel settles for an unregulated, “You’re more than making up for it, now.” 

Dean squints. “Y’know, not to be a dick, Cas, but you ain’t exactly a poster boy for good, either.”

That makes Castiel let out a rare bark of laughter, his lips quirking up into a small smirk. “You’re quite right about that.”

Silence settles over them and, for a moment, gazing at each other with twin smiles has everything… slowed down. When Dean’s eyes soften, his lashes lowering, his plush lips moving to start forming words that Castiel will surely hate, Castiel cuts through the silence as he grabs his coat off of the nearby chair.

“I requested a file on Benny.” 

Dean’s guard goes back up, his hackles visibly raising. “Why?” 

“If Lucifer and Asmodeus know who I am and my connection to you, it’s likely that Crowley does, as well. Even if they do not know I’m FBI, which I believe they don’t, given Alastair’s reaction to me. Benny is the only person in this facility, aside from the warden, that knows I visit you regularly. I would first of all like to keep it that way, and second of all make sure I can trust him with that information.”

“You been comin’ here for months and you’re just now getting twisted up about Benny?” Dean snaps. He tries to sit up, tests his ass, then thinks better of it as he props himself up on an elbow instead. He doesn’t look any less pissed off. “Benny’s good people.”

“And I’m to take your word for it?” Castiel asks with an arched brow.

“All I _been_ givin’ you is my word, Cas, and you know I’m good for it.” Dean spits.

“Then your word is your bond,” Castiel says simply. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, “you drive me fuckin’ nuts.” 

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel says, pulling his trench coat over his frame and knocking on the steel door. He doesn’t wait for Dean’s response and exits as soon as Benny opens the door, waiting for it to close firmly behind him before turning towards the gruff, bear of a man. He eyes Benny critically, unsurprised to see Benny eyeing him in the same manner, and then tips his chin down ever so slightly. “You take good care of him.” 

“The best,” Benny replies, folding his meaty arms over his barrel chest. His pretty ice blue eyes narrow. “Better’n you.” 

Castiel hums in acquiescence, neither agreeing or disagreeing with Benny’s statement. “You would share information with me if it were relevant, would you not?” 

“I would,” Benny says, still gruff.

“Because you would do anything to help Dean?” Castiel presses.

“ _Anything_.” Benny’s cajun drawl emphasizes the word prettily.

They stare at each other, in a stalemate, postures proud and eyes hard. Castiel concedes first, holding out his hand towards the guard. Benny eyes his hand, then his features, then very carefully envelops Castiel’s palm with his strong grip. They shake once, firmly, then Castiel turns on heel, walking away from Benny, Dean, and the pact he just made.

A piece has been added to his side of the board.

Benny Lafitte will do well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are amazing. i LOVE your probing comments and questions. really gets my gears turning >:)  
> we are officially in the "writing this as i update it" stage of the wip which i hate.  
> the first 2 chapters and the first part of this chapter had all been written before i started posting.  
> y'all are being amazing cheerleaders ♥


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning:** this chapter contains graphic descriptions and dialog of underage non-consensual sex/prostitution. it's integral to the plot so it cannot be omitted.  
> also, there is no scat, but things get a little... questionable.

💀💀💀

“How is it, fucking nine year old pussy?” Castiel asks casually.

Across from him, Alpha doesn’t reply.

Castiel shuffles his notes. “I imagine at that age they don’t get wet. Do you like to use lube to open up their baby pussies, or do you fuck them raw and dry?”

In the corner of the room, Benny doesn’t even blink. He’s all Castiel has in this tiny room; no cameras, no microphones, no recorders… This interview is completely off the record.

Alpha still stays silent. 

Castiel abandons his notes, resting his elbows on the table and his cheeks in his open palms as he regards Alpha with curiosity. “Claire and Jo seemed a bit outside of your preferred age range. Sexually mature. Does that mean you’re just into pussy, no matter how old or young it is?” Silence. “Were you going to sell them?”

“I don’t sell what I buy,” Alpha finally says, voice low and gooey. He’s shackled to both the table and the floor.

“So you would have kept them,” Castiel picks up his pen and jots a few things down in the margin of his notes. “For sexual purposes, or caretaker purposes? I can’t imagine you have a lot of free time to make sure all your bitches are in line and taken care of. It would make sense to bring in some older girls for babysitting. I see you were a…” Castiel flips through a few things. “Antiquities dealer. Did a lot of travel. Must have been a wonderful cover, going to different cities and nabbing different girls, no discernible pattern. Honestly,” Castiel’s tone of voice is flippant, “your mistake was making a deal with Roman. You can’t tell me you didn’t know he was an idiot.” 

Alpha laces his fingers together on the tabletop. His gaze is steady, level, the brown of his eyes so endless and deep they look black. The lights overhead reflect on his shiny bald crown. “Roman was a sacrifice I had to make.” 

“We are all thankful he’s off the board,” Castiel agrees.

Alpha lets out a low, sinister laugh. “No, Agent. I sacrificed myself, as well.” 

Castiel finally settles, contemplating Alpha’s words carefully. “You… wanted to be caught?” 

“It wasn’t a want,” Alpha says, “it was a requirement.” 

Drumming his fingers on the table, Castiel chews his lower lip. “No matter what you say in this room, it won’t affect your sentence either way. You won’t get kudos for cooperation, but you won’t get any more charges tacked on to your rap sheet.”

“I’m well aware,” Alpha says with a nod. “However, no matter what I tell you, I will die in here. I may as well be forthcoming.”

“Is someone threatening you?” Castiel asks. 

“Crowley has men everywhere,” Alpha says sagely. He shifts slightly in his seat, leaning forward a bit on his forearms as he looks at Castiel. “I was too high on the totem pole. I needed to be… removed from the board. Instead of giving Crowley the chance to do it, I willfully stepped into a deal with Roman, knowing full well that he would be sieged that night.” 

Castiel recalls how Alpha had been completely unaffected by the convergence. “You were in Crowley’s circle?”

“There aren’t many criminals who aren’t,” Alpha says with a minute shrug, the action foreign on his normally elegant frame. “Crowley has dominion. One would be a fool to resist any offer he comes at them with.”

“And what was your deal?” Castiel asks, flipping to a fresh page in his small notebook. 

“I kept a small commune,” Alpha says. “Virginal girls, all ages and races. I kept them fed, fit, smart. Every once in a while Crowley would come and choose one to take with him. I know not what he did with them, only that he required that I keep my stock full so he could choose at his leisure.”

“So you weren’t molesting the girls.”

“No. If a hand was even raised towards them in anger, I, or my people, would have been killed immediately.” 

“Where is this commune?” 

“Outside of Jefferson City, Missouri.” 

“Will your people still be there or will they have cleared out?”

“They will be there, ready to go peacefully.”

“And the girls? Have they been brainwashed? Will we be able to return them to their families?”

At that, a sharp, salacious smile filters over Alpha’s features. “The girls, by the time your raid comes, will be… unreachable.” 

Castiel stands up, gathering all of his notes so he can put them in his satchel. He catches Benny’s eye and nods, the guard reaching for the door to unlatch it and allow Castiel out; but before he leaves the room, Alpha’s voice stops him. 

“Crowley is the most powerful man in the states, Agent Novak. Possibly even the whole world. Everything is under his thumb and watchful eye. His network is vast and endless. He is cunning and ruthless.”

Castiel cuts Alpha a glance over his shoulder. 

Alpha’s sinister smile curls a little darker at the edges. “Those who cross him are no longer of this world.”

Castiel sends Alpha a wicked smile of his own, “Good thing I am not of this world, then.”

The door clangs shut. A thrill runs through Castiel. 

He’s close. 

He can feel it.

💀💀💀

The commune is recovered, but the only people there are Alpha’s crew. The girls are in the wind, no trace of them. The crew claims they don’t know where they went or what happened to them, claims that Crowley had other people come in and get them, but it’s not in the FBI’s nature to take people for their word, especially hardened criminals. Castiel hadn’t gone on the raid, choosing instead to look over the information he’s gathered - focusing specifically on why Alpha felt the need to purposely set himself up to get caught.

There aren’t many leads here, though. Castiel hasn’t mentioned Alpha to Dean yet, mostly because he’d thought Alpha had been unrelated to Crowley. It seems another visit is in order, and this time, Castiel decides to bring a gift. 

Benny, of course, checks the contents of the small gift box in Castiel’s hands. He doesn’t even blink - just nods and opens up Dean’s cell door, allowing Castiel inside. Dean is in the corner doing pull ups, wearing only his scrub pants, skin shiny with sweat and muscles bunching and flexing attractively as he pulls his weight up and brings it down with control. His knees are bent, ankles crossed for leverage. He’s disgusting. Castiel watches a rivulet of sweat drop over his nipple, eyes hungry. 

Dean drops from the pull up bar and grabs a towel, mopping his face and sending Castiel a boyish, handsome grin. “You’re a day early.”

“I’ve brought you a gift,” Castiel says, holding up the small box.

Dean does his best to dry himself off, dragging the towel all over his body as he approaches Castiel with a charmingly excited smile on his features. When he’s close enough Castiel gets a whiff of his sweaty body; no foul odor, just the scent of Dean’s soap and the musk of his pits and groin sweating. Castiel finds himself wanting to stick his nose directly into the source and huff until he gets high. 

“What is it?” Dean asks, draping the towel over his neck and lifting his gaze up towards Castiel’s. 

“I will give it to you… after you give me some information,” Castiel says, putting the box behind his back.

Dean sits down on the chair at his desk, still smiling. “Whaddya wanna know?”

“I would like to know about Alpha and his ties to Crowley.”

“Alpha?” Dean looks genuinely surprised. “I mean, they got ties, but Alpha’s not a very big player.” 

“Why did he have a commune of girls?” 

Dean settles back in the wood chair, lifting the corner of the towel up to wipe at his plush mouth, brows furrowed in thought. “I always thought it was ‘cause he was a pervert.” 

“He insists that he didn’t engage with them sexually.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, right. Alpha’s got… taste. Not all of those girls were untouched. Maybe the ones that Crowley wanted, specifically, but anyone else? You bet Alpha got his rocks off with ‘em.” 

“What did Crowley want virginal girls for?” 

“Operatives,” Dean says simply. “In this day and age, women still slip under the radar. Crowley had a program that he put girls through - prepubescent girls - to brainwash them and get them onto his side. By the time they were teenagers those girls could pick pockets, seduce enemies, cat burglar high end shops and exhibits. If they ever got caught, they’d just kill themselves.”

Castiel hums, thumbing a corner of the box behind his back idly. “Alpha said that he was instructed to get caught.” 

“Oh?” Dean’s brows bounce. “He told you that?” 

“Once I got him going he was fairly chatty.” 

“Well,” Dean slouches a little in the chair to get comfortable, wiping his mouth with the towel again as his gaze focuses on the floor. “That’s kinda weird. I can’t ever remember Crowley tellin’ anyone to get caught on purpose. An’ I never really took Alpha as the type who would willingly go to the big house.” Dean chuckles a little, the sound dark around the edges. “Soon as word gets out that he was a chomo, he’ll be dead in a day.”

“How unfortunate,” Castiel says dryly. 

“Anyway, now he’s a player off the board.”

Something ticks in Castiel’s head. He ignores it, instead bringing the box around to hold it out towards Dean. Dean grins and takes the box, settling it in his lap and taking off the lid with a sort of reverence that should be reserved for opening anniversary gifts or fragile objects. As it is, Dean reaches through the tissue paper and pulls out a pair of green, silk and satin panties, bikini cut with black ivy detailing at the hips. His pupils dilate, his lips part, cheeks flush; he brings them to his face, inhaling deeply, no doubt catching the whiff of Castiel’s arousal that he’d stamped on them that morning when he’d jerked off over them, still in the box. 

“Damn, babe,” Dean breathes out, looking up at Castiel through his lashes. 

“Put them on,” Castiel instructs.

“You don’t want me to shower first?” 

“You’re only going to get dirty again,” Castiel says simply. 

Dean grins and stands, walking over to the bed. He sets the panties down on his blankets, his back towards Castiel, the muscles of his back rotating and flexing as he reaches to the band of his scrub pants. Castiel’s eyes drop, eyeing the sweat marks on the fabric where Dean’s ass meets his thighs, and then his tongue comes out to wet his dry lips when Dean shucks the pants and steps out of them. His skin is still slightly flushed from his workout, damp with sweat; he steps into the panties, drawing them up his legs, the satin and silk catching on his leg hairs and stuttering over sweat patches before he brings them up over the swell of his ass. He snaps the waistband, moves his hands to no doubt adjust his cock and balls, allowing Castiel to drink in the way the fabric accentuates his rear. When Dean turns around Castiel is pleased to see his cock is fully hard, straining against the fabric, the shiny, wet head peeking out over the waistband and drooling on the panties. 

Castiel drops to his knees. Dean sucks in a shocked breath - Castiel has yet to get on his knees for him, the playing field always even with either of them sitting, standing, on the bed, in various positions together, Castiel always on top - literally or figuratively. But Castiel falls to his knees, reaching out towards Dean’s hips, the sharp jut of them over the pantyline drawing his mouth like a magnet. He presses open-mouthed kisses to the seam of flesh and silk, avoiding Dean’s cock, hands reaching around to grab palm fulls of his ass. Dean, smartly, doesn’t touch Castiel, instead putting his hands behind his back and lacing his fingers to keep them to himself. Castiel moves his face down to the bulge of Dean’s balls, inhaling deeply, smelling sweat and musk and his own dried jizz. His mouth opens to breathe hotly, the warmth of his breath releasing more of that dirty fragrance, drawing the scent into his nostrils, mouth, over his tongue, into his core. 

Dean’s knees tremble, so Castiel helps him sit on the edge of the bed. A bit of shuffling has them both climbing onto the mattress, Castiel between Dean’s legs, nipping and biting the flesh on the insides of Dean’s thighs, leaving behind mottled bruises in the shape of his teeth. Dean reaches up to grab his pillow to keep his hands occupied, new sweat breaking out over his skin to amplify the old sweat. Castiel then starts to move his mouth all over Dean’s body, licking and sucking, tasting the sweat, slurping it up where it gathers in the dip of his belly button and the valley between his pecs, thirsty for it. Dean squirms, pants, moans, his legs spreading and bending at the knee. 

Inching down the panties just enough, Castiel sucks the head of Dean’s cock into his mouth. The flavor explodes over his tongue, his fingers wrapping around Dean’s dick to jerk it a few times. Spit and precum dribble down the length, staining the panties, thickening up Dean’s sweaty pubes; Castiel’s fingers start pulling the panties down, Dean’s legs clumsily getting with the program. 

When Castiel pulls them free Dean whines, clearly unsatisfied with only wearing them for all of five minutes, but Castiel shoots him a look that shuts him up. He pulls the lube out of his pants pocket, coats his fingers, and then plunges two inside Dean as he swallows down his erection.

“Fuck!” Dean’s body tenses and twitches, his legs bending again to rest his calves over Castiel’s shoulders. “Fuck yeah, babe, Jesus. Haven’t even cleaned myself out today, haven’t showered or nothin’, fuckin’ filthy and you want it so bad.” 

Castiel is unconcerned with how dirty or unsanitary it is to fuck Dean’s ass before he had a chance to clean himself out. He’s hungry, ravenous for Dean, the sight of him on the pull up bar when he entered the room enough to haunt him for the next few weeks. He _does_ want Dean bad, the control he normally boasts during their encounters slipping from him bit by bit. He slips in a third finger, stretching them open, knowing Dean likes the burn. He purposely avoids his prostate, focusing more on stretching his rim, feeling it trying to suck his fingers in deeper. 

Dean’s cock in his throat kicks, so Castiel pulls off to take a deep breath, watching it flop against Dean’s stomach with a sticky plopping sound. Dean whines and squirms, but while Castiel’s control might be slipping a bit, he’s still very much coherent with what he wants. He pulls his fingers free from Dean’s ass to grab the panties, swiping the pretty things against Dean’s puffy, dirty rim, watching his asshole flex to chase the sensation. Dean looks down his body at Castiel, his eyes rolling back in his head when Castiel’s diligent, strong fingers start stuffing the panties into Dean’s hole bit by bit. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean groans, thrashing his head from side to side. 

As Castiel stuffs the panties inside his hole he pushes his finger in to press and wiggle, making sure the panties touch every single millimeter of Dean’s insides. 

“Fuck yeah, Cas, stuff ‘em in there so deep I gotta shit ‘em out,” Dean pants, his eyes opening again so he can look down at where Castiel is working between his legs.

Castiel does as demanded, all too happy to watch the panties completely disappear from sight. Dean’s anus seals up when Castiel removes his fingers, trapping the fabric in his rectum securely. He quickly strips himself down all the way, tossing his clothes away from the bed as he grabs the lube. With the same dirty fingers he just had stuffed in Dean’s unclean hole he stretches himself open perfunctorily, climbing over Dean’s body to sit on his stomach. He reaches back and shifts so Dean’s cock rests in the crack of his ass, palms on Dean’s shoulders, eyes dark and hair wild as he drags his taint and sac over Dean’s abdomen.

“Please please please please please,” Dean chants, eyes hooded and dark and unable to look away from Castiel’s features, knuckles white where he’s gripping the edges of his pillowcase. 

Castiel works his hips against Dean’s body and cock, feeling the head nudge against his rim a few times. A few more rotations has Dean’s cock catching, a blurt of precum globbing against Castiel’s ass before he sits down in one go, whuffing out a breath as he wills his body to adjust as quickly as possible. Feeling Dean’s skin against his without the barrier of a condom isn’t anything spectacular, physically, but knowing that Dean is inside him without protection, knowing that Dean is going to fill him up has Castiel rocking his hips and squeezing his channel at the same time.

Dean groans, eyes closing as the sensation overcomes him. Castiel wishes he could watch the way his asshole clenches to try and keep the panties inside while his dick fucks into Castiel, but he’ll settle for the mental image, his eyes roving over Dean’s features as they move together. The sound of Castiel’s ass hitting Dean’s pelvis isn’t as full and fleshy as Dean’s ass hitting Castiel’s pelvis, mostly because Dean’s ass is nice and jiggly and perky, whereas Castiel’s ass is thick and firm - but the noise is still satisfactory, slapping flesh echoing around the room. Dean is still sweating like a whore in church, perspiration a wicked sheen on his body. Castiel moves his hands to skate his palms over the slickness, planting his knees in the mattress on either side of Dean’s hips because he can’t get a grip on his waist without slipping. Dean’s armpits are on display and Castiel can’t help but lean down and bury his face into the left one, feeling the sweaty tangles of hair smearing against his nose and chin as he sucks in a deep, hot breath. 

Dean comes first. His hips piston up against Castiel’s, totally out of rhythm, making Castiel’s teeth clack together. It’s incredible that he can put that much force behind his thrusts without being able to fully brace himself. There’s a sick squelching noise as Dean fucks his cum into Castiel’s ass even as his cock starts to soften; Castiel pulls off of Dean’s cock and raises himself on his knees slightly, starting to jerk his cock. Dean’s eyes open along with his mouth, Castiel aiming with deadly precision as his orgasm overtakes him. Ribbons of cum spurt over Dean’s face, most of them landing in globs on his tongue. Dean finally moves his hands to Castiel’s ass, and Castiel lets him, enjoying the sensation of Dean pulling his asscheeks apart.

Semen drools out of his ass. Castiel bears down a bit, forcing out the spunk in a hot puddle on Dean’s stomach, which has Dean giving a dazed, dopey smile as he watches, entranced at the sight. 

They take a moment to catch their breath, and then Castiel moves off of Dean. Dean’s still on his back, legs spread and knees bent, the heels of his feet touching. He’s covered in cum, cock soft, and from where Castiel stands he can see Dean’s asshole clenching and flexing.

“D’you ever think about it?” Dean asks while Castiel is mopping himself up with Dean’s discarded sweat towel.

“About what,” Castiel replies, pulling on his socks.

“The night we had. Before all of this blew up.” Dean snorts a little. “Heh, blew up.”

“Why would I think about that?” Castiel asks. He’s nearly dressed.

“‘Cause I do, all the time,” Dean says. He finally shifts to roll onto his side, bringing the pillow down to rest his face more comfortably on as he regards Castiel. 

“It would be in your best interest to forget about that night.”

“How can I?” Dean asks, no hard edges in his voice. “It’s the reason for everything, Cas. It’s the reason I died, it’s the reason I went to court, it’s the reason I’m here in this cell… it’s the reason you come and see me.” 

“This is a tête-à-tête, Dean. An exchange.”

“That really all this is to you?” Dean asks, voice soft.

Castiel steels his nerves, finally fully dressed and doing up his tie. He levels Dean with a look. “What we had that night was a fantasy. You didn’t even give me your real name. I was going to leave, we weren’t going to exchange numbers, and we were never going to see each other again.”

“You can’t believe that,” Dean argues, sitting up a bit so he can glare at Castiel. 

“I believe that Dean Winchester operates with his own code of conduct,” Castiel says, “and that one night with a stranger among countless other nights with other strangers wasn’t going to make a dent in the grand scheme of things.”

Dean’s eyes search Castiel’s features silently for a long, uncomfortable moment. Castiel finally gets his tie done, smooths his clothes, and runs a hand through his hair. 

“You really think I don’t have feelings for you. And you really think you don’t have feelings for me.”

“You are a _criminal_ ,” Castiel finally snaps. 

“Oh, and you’re so much better than I am ‘cause you’ve got a badge?” Dean snaps back, just as heated. “You’re just like me, Cas. You just tell yourself you’re a good guy so you can sleep well at night.”

Castiel closes the distance between them, looming over Dean with a scowl on his features. “I am not a _good guy_ , Dean. You’ll do well to hold your tongue about lumping me in with you and the two-bit criminals that I kill or put behind bars.”

That causes Dean to smile wolfishly, green eyes glinting dangerously. “That’s exactly why you’re like me, Cas.”

Straightening, Castiel lets out an aggravated breath and turns on heel. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“See you soon, Cas.”

Outside, Benny tips his head towards Castiel. Castiel takes a few moments to calm his nerves, then turns a cool gaze and a lofted brow towards Benny.

“What time are you off?”

💀💀💀

Bars aren’t really Castiel’s thing, but Benny seems perfectly at home at the Roadhouse, flagging down a waitress and ordering two beers. In a booth tucked back away from the crowds Castiel isn’t sure this is the best place to talk to Benny about anything official, but he’s also not comfortable enough with the guard to offer up his own home. The beer comes along with chips and salsa, Benny looking completely unbothered as he helps himself.

“Y’know,” he says, cajun drawl drawing Castiel’s attention. “I like you well enough, but ya’in’t exactly my type.” 

“We can agree on that,” Castiel says, unruffled. “I wanted to talk about Dean.”

“Aw,” Benny’s pretty blue eyes glint with amusement, sharp at the edges. “Want me to pass him a note? ‘Do you like me? Check yes or no’?” 

“You are the only person who’s known him for longer than he’s been in Crowley’s circle,” Castiel says, ignoring Benny’s jabs. 

“Y’ever thought about askin’ Dean ‘bout himself?” Benny asks, taking a deep drink of beer.

“I did, and I have. But I would rather hear your side of events.”

Benny blows out a breath, reaching up to adjust his hat before pulling it off and setting it down on the end of the table by the salt shakers. “Dean’s a complicated guy, but his compass has always been good. Anythin’ he’s ever done, he’s done it ‘cause he thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Hooking? Hustling? Murder?” 

“For as long as I’ve known ‘im, Dean’s always had an agenda. His daddy was real mean to him an’ his brother growin’ up. Beat him if he talked back, left town for weeks without givin’ ‘em money to fend for themselves. In the beginning, everything Dean did, he did for his brother, Sam.” Benny strokes his beard idly, then lets out a small hum. “This all gonna stay between us, brother?”

Castiel nods.

Benny nods as well. “Ol’ John Winchester was a mean son of a gun, greedy to no end with a one track mind. If it weren’t booze or money, he weren’t interested. That included his sons, ‘til lil’ ol’ Dean started to fill out. Long lashes, full lips, curvy body. ‘Like a girl’, John used to say. He realized he could use Dean for things. So he sold him on the weekends to the highest bidder an’ went on benders with the winnings. Groomed Dean to take cock, groomed ‘im to be submissive and groomed ‘im to take a beating from paying customers. Think Dean was ten when that started.” 

Something ugly twists in Castiel’s gut, but he stays quiet.

“Dean’s always been adaptable, y’know? An’ he’s always been responsible. John’d say, ‘ya gotta feed Sammy, boy, so you take three dicks tonight and y’all can eat like kings when I’m gone’. Dean’d do anything for that kid. So, he did. But because Dean’s adaptable, he’s smart,” Benny taps his own temple, grinning despite the macabre topic of conversation. “Started figurin’ out how to hustle people. In middle school he was real pretty, y’know? The perfect underage twink. His dad started booking him for parties and events and they’d pass Dean around like hor d'oeuvres. When I met Dean I didn’t know any of this was happenin’. Just knew he pickpocketed and shoplifted sometimes, knew that he’d choose feeding Sammy over washin’ his clothes at the laundromat. 

Dean got real handy, too. With John off on benders Dean took care of their shitty little shack house, fixin’ plumbing, doin’ maintenance. He was clever enough to figure out how to hotwire cars and steal ‘em to sell ‘em to whatever skeezy guy would make an offer. When Dean was sixteen, John disappeared. Two years later, when Dean was eighteen and old enough to file for custody of lil’ Sammy, John’s body was found. Well- parts of it.”

Castiel lets out a breath, then takes a deep drink of his beer, draining half his glass in two swallows.

“I lost track of Dean after that. Didn’t know where he was til’ he got booked in the prison. Then I transferred, now we’re here,” Benny says, gesturing idly with his hands. 

“What about Sam?” 

“In the wind. Think he got a name change and booked it outta Dodge around the time I lost track of Dean. I’ve abused my authority once or twice to try an’ find ‘im, but no dice.”

“Do you think Dean knows where he is?”

“Couldn’t tell ya, brother. I just know that Sammy Winchester used to be Dean’s world, and now Dean doesn’t say a single thing ‘bout him.”

Settling back in the booth, Castiel scratches idly at his eyebrow, before nodding. “Thank you for telling me this.”

“I think Dean’d tell ya if you just gave him a little time,” Benny says. “You’re special to him. He’d tell you anything you wanna know.”

Castiel sends Benny a calculating look. “Why are you here, Benny? Why did you transfer to Dean’s prison?”

Benny finally drops his gaze, fiddling with his beer glass. “You know why.” 

Shifting in his seat, Castiel pulls his wallet out and puts a few bills on the table. He puts his wallet away and stands up, draining his beer, setting his glass down and holding his hand out towards Benny. Benny gives him a thoughtful look, then takes his hand, squeezing rather than shaking. 

Castiel leaves, his head spinning.

He’s no closer to Crowley, but he feels closer to… _something_.

Which way is his own compass pointing?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'nother friendly reminder to check the tags  
> for those of you who just dive right in...  
>  **this chapter contains piss play**

Turning his head to the side, Castiel spits a glob of blood and spit out of his mouth, uncaring that he’ll get an earful from the club owner. He’s got gloves and no helmet, wearing athletic shorts and no shirt, Victor squared off opposite him - though Victor has opted to wear a helmet. He learned the hard way to make sure he’s fully geared up when he faces off with Castiel.

They’re both out of breath, sweating, Castiel feeling the electric buzz under his skin of adrenaline with no outlet. Victor’s good, but he’s not as good as Castiel; Victor’s just the only other agent willing to step into the ring with the man. Victor’s managed to land one good hit, Castiel’s jaw aching faintly. Castiel hasn’t hit Victor at all, instead choosing to be on the defense, because in this state of mind if he unleashes his fists, he won’t stop, and then the only reliable partner he’s ever had will be dead. And, well, Castiel just can’t have that.

They dance around each other, Victor feinting and swerving, trying to find a weak spot in Castiel’s defense. Honestly, Castiel should just let Victor wail on him. Should let Victor punch him and kick him and pin him down to the floor and rain fury down on him. Should let Victor break his nose, sprain his wrist - _something_. Castiel feels an unfamiliar bloodlust as Victor darts forward and jabs his fist into Castiel’s ribs, the breath barely leaving the man at the contact. 

Victor tires out before Castiel does. 

Castiel mops up the floor of the ring before the owner can complain to him. Victor invites Castiel out for drinks, gets denied like usual, and leaves without complaint. 

Castiel calls ahead to the prison to let them know he’s coming.

Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, it’s the most dressed down Castiel has been during a visit. Benny nods at him, opens the door, and Castiel walks into the darkness of Dean’s cell, eyes adjusting quickly to see the man curled up on his bed, wrapped up in the blankets and fast asleep.

Castiel slips out of his shoes. His socked feet are quiet on the concrete floor, silent on the plush rug in the center of the room. He stands at the edge of Dean’s bed, all of that bloodlust and rage cooling to a simmer before it completely evaporates. It’s nearly pitch black in the cell without a light on, no windows in the walls or cracks under the door. Dean looks peaceful in sleep, his youthful features relaxed. The twelve year difference between them settles in Castiel’s veins. Dean’s not even thirty. Castiel is almost forty. And yet Dean has lived such a chaotic and awful life, multiple terrible lives smashed into twenty-seven years, squashed into the bottle of his youth… 

Crawling into bed, Castiel is careful not to jostle Dean, who has gravitated towards the wall at some point in the night. Castiel stays atop the covers, continues to look at Dean, and thinks. 

Vivid memories from four years ago flash in the darkness in front of Castiel’s contemplative eyes. He remembers counting the freckles on Dean’s back, chasing the numbers with his lips. He remembers sharing kisses that could barely be considered smooches due to how big they both were smiling. He remembers touching Dean with a reverence he’d never bestowed on anyone else, remembers how Dean softened around the edges, remembers how Dean blushed and got shy under the attention. 

He remembers waking up the next morning with Dean spooned into his back, lips pressed to Castiel’s neck in his sleep, and thinking to himself, _This is it. This is the one._

The memories never fail to make Castiel queasy. In this moment, though, right next to Dean, Castiel can’t find it in himself to be angry. He’d let his guard down for a reason, all those years ago. Castiel has never been naive, but at one point in his life he’d been idyllic, and after years of being a career-oriented man, suddenly having Dean drop into his life - in the form of them turning into each other’s shopping carts in the cereal aisle - he had thought… this is what he’d been grinding towards. All the time and effort he’d spent making a name for himself, working his way up the criminal justice ladder; he’d be able to start a family, support people he loved, and become the person his parents never thought he could be.

All of that seems so far away, now. 

Castiel has always toed the line. Some of his superiors had voiced concerns on how he handled situations, but nothing ever came to fruition. No write-ups, no punishments; just the occasional slap on the wrist. Castiel was too good of an agent for them to try and do anything else - they couldn’t risk their best man if they wanted to keep their numbers up. 

Meeting Dean - then, Michael - and then having him taken away from him so traumatically… well, that had changed Castiel. 

And not for the better. 

Castiel isn’t an idiot, but he knows he’s proficiently obtuse. Dean’s declaration of feelings for him last week didn’t go ignored or unnoticed. The night they shared together years ago… that had been real, Castiel is sure of it. Dean, through a fake name, and possibly an apartment rented just for show, had been real.

“Stop thinkin’ so loud.” 

Dean’s voice comes so intimately quiet, it barely registers. Castiel blinks in mild surprise, the sensation of his lids falling over his eyes and lifting again registering as dry. He’d been staring at Dean this whole time. Dean’s eyes are still closed, his body still relaxed, but he’d rolled over to face Castiel at some point during the agent’s introspection. 

Castiel says nothing.

The faintest of smiles curls over Dean’s pretty, plush lips. “Knew I’d wear you down enough for cuddles.”

“We’re not touching,” Castiel points out, the soft pitch of his voice matching Dean’s. 

“One step at a time,” Dean’s words aren’t slurred with sleep or foggy with confusion. Had he been asleep at all since Castiel had entered?

Finally, Dean’s eyes open. Castiel sees the wetness of them in the dark. Dean moves a hand, slowly, mapping his movements like Castiel’s a deer that could startle at any moment. Fingers gently touch Castiel’s forearm where it rests between their bodies, curling around the sinewy muscle and bone. Castiel feels an iota of tension bleed from his body through the contact.

“Stayin’ the night?” 

“Benny would probably like to go home.” 

“He’ll stay,” Dean says simply. He scoots forward, just slightly “S’wrong? S’late. You’re never here at this time.”

Castiel wants to point out that Dean doesn’t have a clock in his cell, so he can’t possibly know what time it is, but bites his tongue. Instead he stays quiet for a moment, absorbing Dean’s soft demeanor, his calm, thinking about the morning they woke up together and didn’t care a single bit about morning breath. 

“Don’t gotta answer,” Dean finally says, when Castiel says nothing. He squeezes Castiel’s forearm. 

Silence falls. Dean’s eyes close. Castiel’s stay open, regarding the man as he relaxes. He knows Dean’s not sleeping because his thumb occasionally swipes through the hair on Castiel’s forearm. He doesn’t know how long he watches Dean… but, eventually, his eyes do fall closed. His mind goes blank for the first time in months- maybe even years. 

He sleeps.

\--

The next time Castiel’s eyes open, he’s alone in the bed and staring at the boring grey of the concrete wall it’s pushed up against. He’s still atop the covers, though there’s a smaller blanket draped over his torso, his body curled on its side. Sitting up, shaking the fog of sleep from his brain, his eyes swivel around the cell until they land on Dean, who’s sitting at his desk and reading a book. There’s a tray next to him, breakfast half-eaten, and a styrofoam cup of coffee. Running his hands through his hair Castiel resolutely decides to not think about what just happened, instead standing up, the sound of his joints cracking and popping causing Dean to glance over at him. 

“Morning, gorgeous.”

Castiel scowls.

Dean smiles prettily in return, holding up the cup of coffee, which is still full and steaming. “Here. Drink this.”

Ignoring Dean, Castiel walks over towards where his shoes lay by the door. “What time is it?” 

“My breakfast is served at seven,” Dean replies. “Been about twenty minutes since Benny brought it in.”

Skin prickling at the thought of Benny seeing Castiel sleeping in Dean’s bed, Castiel clenches his jaw and picks up a shoe to start untying the laces. 

“Forgot how cute you are in the morning,” Dean says conversationally. “All grumpy. Like a wet kitten.” 

Castiel continues to ignore him, finally getting both of his shoes untied and slipping his feet into them. He crouches to start tying the laces, shoulders hunched, posture tense. This is bad. This was a mistake. 

“Look, I ain’t gonna ask why you suddenly wanted a sleepover,” Dean’s voice is soft, gentle, and immediately gets on Castiel’s nerves. “But I’m uh, heh. I’m glad you stayed.” 

“This was a mistake,” Castiel voices that thought out loud as he stands, turning to look at Dean with narrowed eyes. “It won’t happen again.” 

Dean holds up his hands innocently, “Ok, ok. Touchy.” He leans back slightly in his chair, putting his palms on his thighs. “Next time you go out with Benny have a drink for me, hey?” 

Icicles shoot down Castiel’s spine. Of course, Benny had probably told Dean that Castiel had met up with him and asked for sordid details of Dean’s past. Nothing that Dean just said sounds like any sort of threat, but the casual reminder that Dean knows more than he lets on has Castiel on edge all over again. 

“Just remember, I’m a switch, and ol’ Benny’s exclusively a top.”

Castiel doesn’t bid Dean goodbye as he knocks on the door, Benny letting him out almost immediately. 

“Y’alright?” Benny asks, though his tone of voice suggests that he rather wouldn’t know, let alone wanted to ask in the first place. 

“Yes. Thank you, Benny.”

Castiel feels Benny’s gaze on his back like a brand as he walks away.

💀💀💀

He’s losing his grip. Castiel is losing his fucking grip and he can’t have that. He pulls long hours at the office, beats punching bags until the seams rip and the stuffing falls out of them, does his best to track Lucifer and Asmodeus and most importantly: he doesn’t see Dean.

For two months.

He makes headway on Lucifer and Asmodeus. They’ve been spotted, _finally_ , two weeks ago. Charlie pulled up surveillance camera for an apartment complex in the suburbs of Detroit, the footage rather boring as the men get into an unremarkable Toyota Camry and pull out of the parking garage. They aren’t spotted on any other cameras after that, but it’s as good a lead as any. 

Castiel goes to Detroit.

He does not go to see Dean.

He stakes out the apartment complex. In an unmarked four-door Ford Focus Castiel stays as invisible as possible. He watches the apartments through binoculars, drives around the local shops, eats terrible fast food that he washes down with black tar coffee. It takes five days for him to see Lucifer and Asmodeus pull into the parking garage. Castiel dons his brown UPS disguise, pulls a cap over his messy hair, and grabs a medium-sized, empty box out of the back of his car. He follows the men inside at a safe distance, pretending to be standing in front of the package drop for the community mailboxes. The men get into an elevator, and when the doors shut Castiel slips into the stairwell. On every floor he peeks out the door to check the hallways, and on the seventh floor he sees the tail end of Asmodeus’ shirt going into an apartment. Quietly, Castiel stalks down the hallway, making note of which apartment they’re in, before he retreats. He takes the stairs again, throws the box in the trash, and then makes his way back to his car.

Two days holed up in a hotel has Castiel stir-crazy, but focused. 

The next day, he puts a block of C4 on the apartment door and detonates it remotely from his car down the block. He watches the fire department and emergency responders come, watches as families come running out of the building, screaming, crying, terrified; but Castiel knows that the worst of the blast was concentrated to 704E. With his binoculars he waits patiently, smirking to himself when he sees Lucifer and Asmodeus being brought out on separate stretchers.

 **Henry Ford Hospital** is on the side of the ambulances. 

Castiel waits four hours before plugging the coordinates into his GPS.

Flashing his badge to gain access is too easy. He gives a false name and makes sure the nurse doesn’t look too closely at his credentials. Asmodeus is in a medically induced coma, but Lucifer is awake. Some other tenants of the apartment complex are also in the hospital with minor injuries, but Castiel pays them no mind. He’s singularly focused on the fact that he finally has Lucifer, and when he slips into the man’s room and shuts the door behind him with a _snick_ , he can’t help the sinister smile that curls on his lips.

Lucifer looks awful. His blond hair is matted, his blue eyes dull, his skin sallow. He has lacerations and bruises all over his body, one leg in a cast, a tube down his throat. When he sees Castiel his brow furrows in confusion, and when Castiel flashes his badge and sits down in the chair next to the bed, the confusion deepens. He can’t turn his head enough to see Castiel pulling a syringe out of his inner breast pocket and fiddling with the IV stand.

“I’ll keep this brief, because you’re quite honestly not worth my breath, but I feel as though we should straighten a few things out before you die.”

The man blinks coolly at him. 

Castiel hums as he sticks the needle in the drip. “You don’t recognize me.” The man remains stoic. “I suppose I could be relieved and go on my way, but…” he lets out a falsely dramatic sigh as he depresses the lever of the syringe. “That wouldn’t be any fun. I’ve already killed one of you. Asmodeus, if he wakes up, is going to be a vegetable. Which leaves you, awake, and somewhat cognizant.”

Lucifer looks confused all over again. Castiel leans forward slightly so he can be in the man’s view without making him turn his head too much with the tube down his throat. 

“Four years ago you blew me up and took the love of my life,” Castiel says simply. 

Finally, _finally_ , recognition lights in Lucifer’s eyes. 

Castiel smiles beatifically. “You made a big mistake, not killing me. But, you didn’t know I was FBI. Dean didn't know what branch I worked, so really, I _should_ have been fine. Except in my quest to find Crowley, I stumbled across Alastair, and Alastair recognized me, and… well, I’m sure you’re the one who found him.”

Lucifer, body weak and partially restrained, narrows his eyes in a glare. 

“You can imagine the domino effect,” Castiel says with a shrug. “I heard you three worked collections together… I couldn’t risk any of you identifying me and placing me at the blast with Dean. I’d lose my job. All my credentials. I might even go to jail on some superfluous charge a hellbent judge slaps me with. I’ve already got a… reputation. I know someone’s waiting to get the jump on me.”

Castiel stands, leaning over Lucifer’s bed, his hands on the rails on either side as he looms over the man’s features. The empty needle is in his right hand, still out of Lucifer’s view. “You’re going to die today, Lucifer. I had a heart, once. And you took it away.” 

Lucifer looks like he wants to say something, because of course he does. But he can’t with the tube down his throat. Castiel looks at the tube with contemplation, and then reaches out to wrap his fingers around it, staring at Lucifer’s chest where he can’t see how strategically the piping was stuffed down into his lungs to make sure nothing got ruptured or punctured. When he touches the tube Lucifer manages to twitch his fingers and hands, his chilling blue eyes widening slightly.

“Do you have any last words?” Castiel asks.

Lucifer’s head twitches in the negative, eyes full of fear. 

“Pity.” 

With a rough yank, Castiel pulls the tube free of Lucifer’s throat. The man lets out a garbled yell, body involuntarily thrashing as the piping comes out. His eyes bulge when Castiel slaps a hand over his mouth, other hand on Lucifer’s shoulder to keep him pinned to the bed as the drugs work their way through his veins. He holds the empty syringe where Lucifer can see it, delighting in the sheer terror that flashes in eyes that may have been pretty, if they’d been on any other person on earth. 

Lucifer dies with his eyes open and unseeing, the last image imprinted in his brain before death no doubt Castiel staring down at him, wild-eyed and snarling.

💀💀💀

Castiel drives for ten hours without stopping. His bladder is full, his adrenaline is starting to crash, and his dick is so hard he thinks it might be broken. It takes twenty minutes for Benny to be assigned guard to Dean’s cell, and once Castiel is inside, he yanks Dean off of the bed and throws him onto the floor on his hands and knees, nearly ripping his scrubs as he pulls them over the curve of his ass.

Dean’s as enthusiastic as ever, crooning out a low moan and presenting his hole prettily. Castiel’s cock is hard and his bladder is full and he only thinks for a moment before he shuffles Dean off of the plush rug and onto the concrete, the only barrier between Dean’s knees and the gritty floor his thin scrub pants. Dean doesn’t care, but he takes off his shirt to ball it up and put it under his chest as a makeshift pillow. Castiel’s got a single-minded focus and no lube so he thinks on the fly, unzipping his pants and jerking his cock to squeeze out a blurt of precum, watching the pearly bead drop onto Dean’s winking asshole.

The flood of piss comes second and it feels so good Castiel nearly whimpers. Once Dean realizes what’s happening he lets out a long, wrecked moan, putting his chest on the floor and reaching back with his hands to spread his asscheeks. Castiel stops his stream with gritted teeth, lets his hard cock drop onto Dean’s piss-soaked crack, enjoying the slap as his shaft hits the wetness. Some piss has pooled on Dean’s fluttering hole, slipping inside; two of Castiel’s fingers chase it, thrusting into Dean’s hole roughly. Dean chants “yes, yes, yes,” as Castiel stretches him open to the bare minimum before stuffing his cock inside in one solid, sure stroke.

Dean’s body is unnaturally tight. It’s been over two months since they last fucked and Castiel’s cock loves the nearly virginal squeeze of the man’s ass as he starts fucking brutally into it. Dean’s hands are still on his cheeks, his head turned to the side as he pants and moans and begs for Castiel to fuck him harder, deeper, rougher. Castiel’s grip on Dean’s hips is hard enough to bruise, he knows Dean is going to be sore. Some leftover piss dribbles down Dean’s thighs onto the concrete and Castiel finds himself surprised that he’d had the foresight to get Dean off of the rug. Something like this has never crossed his mind before but the need to defile Dean, debase him and debauch him had creeped up on him halfway from Pittsburgh to New York and now that he’s doing it, now that he has Dean under him…

Castiel’s orgasm overtakes him like a freight train. He comes so hard he nearly blacks out - he comes so hard his cock is still stiff, veiny and purple. He fucks his cum deep into Dean’s hole and then pulls out til just the head is tucked inside the puffy rim, jerking the base of his cock a few times, reaching down to squeeze and pull at his balls. The relief of his bladder emptying is second to the sight of his piss filling Dean’s hole to the brim, a mixture of urine and cum dribbling out around the spaces between the head of his dick and Dean’s rim. Dean gets soaked from the ass down, Castiel sees the movement of his arm from jacking off, and when Dean clenches around him again, a dry orgasm is ripped from Castiel’s abused nether regions. When he pulls out the sight of Dean’s hole flexing to expunge the filth from him shouldn’t be so incredible, but it is.

And Castiel can’t help but lean down and help clean it out with his tongue.

“Oh my _fuck_ Cas, you’re so- holy shit that’s fucking nasty, oh my God, you’re incredible,” Dean babbles, still mercilessly stroking his own cock. “Fuckin’ animal, marked me up so good, everyone’s gonna know I’m yours, fucking shit Cas, baby, _baby_ , your piss is so hot inside me, can still feel it, better than your cum, oh my God, oh my _Godddd_ -” 

Dean’s orgasm adds to the mess pooling on the floor and his scrub pants. They stay locked in position, Castiel’s forehead on the small of Dean’s back as they try to gather their breaths. After a moment Castiel finally pulls away on stiff knees, his cock still half-hard from all the stimulation. Dean shuffles out of his pants to leave them on the floor, leaves his shirt as well, and then stands up with a jaunty bounce, making his way over to the sink to grab a towel and start running the hot water.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what was that about?” Dean asks. He wipes himself down thoroughly, Castiel watching with detached interest as Dean swipes up piss and cum and sweat. He grabs a different clean towel for Castiel, wetting it and tossing it over. 

Castiel barely manages to lift a hand to catch it. He wipes himself down as well, then tosses his towel into the hamper alongside Dean’s. He tucks himself into his pants, sits on the edge of Dean’s bed, and says, “Lucifer and Asmodeus are dead.” 

Dean stills.

The air in the cell grows thick.

When Castiel looks up at Dean he sees heat in those green eyes, a pleased smirk curled over Dean’s lips. 

“Murder gets you hot, huh?” 

“Dean,” Castiel says a bit testily. “They’re gone. All that’s left is to find Crowley and take him out.” 

Dean rolls his eyes at being chastised, reaching into a small dresser to pull out a new pair of pants. He skips a shirt, moving to sit next to Castiel on the bed, about six inches of distance between them. “Alright. And how are you gonna do that? You killed your two leads on him, y’know.” 

“I’m aware,” Castiel says, “but if Crowley’s top men are gone, he’s weak.”

“Y’think so?” Dean asks. It’s not a patronizing question; it sounds almost… rhetorical. Castiel glances over towards Dean, arching a brow to prompt him to extrapolate. “I mean, I guess that’d make sense. But who knows the last time Lucifer and Asmodeus even saw Crowley? Where were they when you got ‘em?”

“Detroit.”

“Huh,” Dean hums. “Detroit wasn’t really… on any list, y’know?”

Castiel catalogues that information. “If it’s a place that even you didn’t know of, perhaps it holds some significance.”

“Could just have been their love nest,” Dean waggles his brows, lying back on the bed on his elbows. 

Castiel says nothing.

“How’d you do it?” 

“I blew up their apartment,” Castiel says, “and then killed them in the hospital.” 

When Dean doesn’t say anything, Castiel looks over at him, surprised to see something… _new_ , shining in his eyes. There’s a half-smile on his lips, his posture is relaxed, his head tilted. 

“Y’know, Cas, that’s almost… romantic. That you took them out how they tried to take us out.” 

Instead of deflecting, or saying something pissy, or not saying anything at all, Castiel allows one side of his own lips to curl up, meeting Dean’s gaze. “It was very… cathartic.”

Dean leans up, shifts to get on his knees, shuffling towards Castiel. Castiel stays still, trying to determine what Dean’s going to do. He doesn’t expect Dean to drape his arms over Castiel’s shoulders, turn his body slightly towards him, and then draw him into his chest for a hug. Castiel’s face is buried in the crook of Dean’s neck, his shoulders tense as Dean cradles him; Dean’s fingers run through his hair, he feels the distinct press of Dean’s lips against his head… and then Castiel, miraculously, relaxes for the first time in what feels like years. 

“You did so good, babe.”

That tightly coiled grip of control he’s kept on himself loosens slightly at the slide of Dean’s fingertips in his hair, lips on the crown of his head. 

Castiel’s eyes close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chin stroking emoji*  
> *devil smiling emoji*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're gonna start getting into some world-building in this chapter and the next.  
> no crazy warnings for this chapter.

_4 years, 10 months ago…_

“Oh shit- sorry, man!”

The jarring force of another shopping cart colliding with Castiel’s ricochets up his forearms and clacks his teeth minutely. He’d taken the corner at the same time as someone else, apparently, the noses of their carts nearly tangled up together. The first thing he takes in, brought out of his meandering thoughts, is the assortment of boxed goods, potato chips, and a six-pack of beer. The cart of a bachelor. Lifting his gaze to finally look at the man on the other end of the cart, he’s satisfied with his deductive reasoning. Though, the bachelor is quite young and _very_ attractive, the sheepish smile on his pretty features ramping up Castiel’s interest.

“Just tryna get down the aisle before all the moms do,” the man continues, waving a piece of paper in his hand.

Castiel recognizes it as a cereal coupon from the Sunday paper. “Ah,” Castiel nods, picking up the same coupon from the stack of clippings on the child’s seat of his own shopping cart, offering a friendly smile. “It’s a good deal. The shelves seemed pretty stocked, you should be fine.”

The man looks an obscene level of relieved, letting out a melodious, baritone laugh. “Thanks, bud. I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs an’ I’ve been havin’ a hankerin’ for like, an entire week.” 

Carefully, Castiel pulls his cart away from the man’s, the other doing the same maneuver to get their carts parallel in the aisle. “Is the cereal coupon the only one you clipped from the paper?” 

“Well,” the man leans attractively on the handle of his cart, sending Castiel a flirtatious smile. “Between you n’ me, this butcher’s not the best in the area. They got good deals but… a little _too_ good, y’know? I’d rather get my money’s worth at the Kiev. They got the finest cuts.”

Castiel glances down to the basket of his shopping cart; he has yet to make it to the butcher section, but at this man’s words, he finds himself agreeing. “You’re right. This store has good produce, though.” 

The man wrinkles his nose cutely, “Salad is for rabbits, man.” 

“I’m sure your body would forgive you for the Cocoa Puffs at breakfast if you also went cuckoo for Caesar at lunch,” Castiel says, the tease falling from his lips before he can take it back.

The man’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, and then he’s hooting out a laugh and straightening so he can throw his head back, slapping a hand on his thigh. “Holy shit, you’re incredible!” Wiping a fake tear from a pretty green eye, the man leans a bit closer, mischief written all over his features. “Hey, you can tell me I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree if ya like, but… you wanna get some coffee with me after we finish our domestic chores?”

The blatant flirtatious invitation has Castiel’s cheeks flushing without his permission. And yet, the man is so simple and charming, inviting and friendly… Castiel nods, enjoying the way the man softens around the edges. “There’s a cafe on the corner of the block?”

“Sure,” the man agrees easily. He holds out his hand, “I’m Michael.”

Castiel takes his hand for a surprisingly firm shake, “Castiel.” 

Michael’s eyes flash with interest. “Alright. M’ almost done, so I’ll meet you there.”

“Ok,” Castiel nods. Michael flashes him a wink before sauntering down into the cereal aisle, and Castiel takes care to make sure he’s totally out of the aisle (and eyesight) before running a hand over his features. He just got asked out - in public - by a handsome man who’s definitely a decade or more younger than him… and God help him, he’d agreed! Castiel can’t recall the last time he’d met someone who’d been interested enough to ask him out. People typically got turned off by his terrible humor and the fact that he rarely cracks a smile. But this Michael had blown past his defenses, even thought them cute, maybe?, and had deemed it a good idea to ask him out. 

This doesn’t happen to Castiel. He keeps his head down, does his job, excels in his field, occasionally meets colleagues for drinks… and, if anyone expresses interest, politely declines. 

Perhaps it’s the location, he muses as he makes his way towards the dry noodles. His cheeks are still flushed and his heart is pitter-pattering, which is stupid for a thirty-four year old man, and he knows the strange sensation pulling at the corners of his mouth is a contented smile. He has to check his list and his coupons eight more times to ensure that he’s gotten everything he needs, and doesn’t see Michael in the checkout line. He passes the checker his responsible, reusable bags, and thanks his lucky stars that today he didn’t buy anything that needs to be refrigerated immediately. He takes his groceries out to his Nissan Leaf, arranging them neatly in the trunk before deciding to walk to the cafe. 

He doesn’t think about Michael waiting for him, which means he doesn’t have the chance to talk himself out of meeting him. When he walks through the cafe door it chimes prettily, and movement in the corner of his eye reveals Michael standing from a stool he’d been sitting on, just off the side of the customer line. Without the distraction of surprise and the store around them, Castiel finally registers how the man looks; broad up top, narrow waist, his body not accentuated but not hidden by a worn Metallica t-shirt with a red flannel thrown over it, the jeans he’s wearing hugging him in the right places and ending in a pair of sturdy looking work boots. 

And oh, with the soft natural light of the cafe instead of the industrial lighting of the grocery store, Castiel notes the freckles dusted over his cheeks and nose, the way his ginger lashes frame his beautiful green eyes. His hair is between brown and blond, probably lighter in the summer and darker in the winter, his jaw clean-shaven and sharp enough to cut rocks. 

“Heya, Cas,” he greets, looking like a dream come true.

“Hello, Michael,” Castiel replies in kind. There’s a moment where they just gaze at each other for a few seconds, disrupted when the barista calls out “um, sirs?” from the counter. Jolted, Castiel slightly embarrassed and Michael looking pleased as punch, they move up to the counter. 

“Gimme your strongest espresso, beautiful,” Michael says, turning his charming smile towards the barista, who blushes brightly and fumbles her manicured fingers over the touch-screen computer in front of her. “And whatever this handsome devil wants,” he adds on, reaching out with one hand to tug Castiel forward by the belt loop while his other hand pulls his wallet out of his pocket. 

Doing his best not to fumble Castiel clears his throat and orders a jasmine tea with honey, hearing Michael’s interested hum as he pays the barista and then drops a generous tip in the tin between registers. She informs them that she’ll call their order when it’s ready, and then Michael uses his finger in Castiel’s belt loops to pull him away from the counter towards a sitting area outfitted with cushy couches and recliners instead of wooden stools and chairs. Michael chooses the sofa for them, just big enough for two grown men to sit on, their bodies facing towards each other. Michael settles into the corner of the arm of the couch, drawing a leg up to stick his foot under his other thigh and send Castiel a bright grin. 

“So.”

“So,” Castiel ventures, slightly unsurely, a weird sensation fluttering in his tummy. Are… are those butterflies? 

“I’m assuming you’re grocery shopping for one,” Michael says with a small chuckle. The barista ends up bringing them their drinks, which they thank her for, then Michael settles back into the curves of the sofa, eyeing Castiel curiously over the rim of his mug. 

“I am,” Castiel says with a nod. He cups his mug and inhales the sweet aroma, before looking across at Michael. “Is that a pickup line you use often?”

Michael snorts a little, shaking his head. “Not sure if you’d believe me if I said I don’t make a habit of taking strangers to coffee.”

“I think the only thing I wouldn’t believe is if you said you had difficulty taking strangers to coffee,” Castiel says with an arched, curious brow, implying without words how attractive he thinks Michael is. 

“No difficulty at all,” Michael agrees with a playful glint in his eyes as he blatantly looks Castiel up and down. “But I’ve got expensive taste.”

“This tea was two dollars,” Castiel replies dryly.

Michael barks a laugh, which he quickly quiets when he remembers he’s in public. “Jesus, Cas. Slow down, I might fall in love.”

Castiel chuckles a little, taking a careful sip of his tea. “What do you do for a living?” 

“Freelance contracting,” Michael replies. “Construction work and labor.” Ah, explains the work boots and dressed down daily fashion. “What about you?” Green eyes rove over Castiel’s body curiously, without the heat. “Lemme guess: you’re wearing slacks and a button-up on a weekday, no tie but I bet you have one in your car right next to your blazer, which you took off ‘cause it’s hot as balls today…” Castiel blinks in surprise at Michael’s intuitive guesswork. “Tax accountant?” 

Castiel can’t help but laugh. “I suppose I look like I would have a boring job.”

“You don’t?” Michael asks, grin widening as he leans forward slightly.

“I don’t,” Castiel confirms. Then, he leans forward and drops his voice, “I’m afraid if I told you what I do for a living, I’d have to kill you.”

“Oooh,” Michael croons playfully, wiggling his feet. “I love a bad boy.”

They share a chuckle and fall into easy conversation. Castiel is surprised by how intelligent and sharp Michael is, despite his age; but Castiel has to tell himself that he, too, was once twenty-three years old, and knows that he wasn’t a complete idiot, so he should do his best to not judge a book by its cover. Michael loves pop culture, burgers and beer, says he’s a transplant from the midwest and followed his career where he knew the money would be better, and though he is youthful Castiel can tell he’s by no means naive. 

So when their mugs are empty and Michael leans forward to put his hand on Castiel’s knee to invite him over to his place, Castiel surprises himself by agreeing. He has to take his groceries home, first, but Michael says he lives in the apartment complex down the block, telling Castiel to swing by apartment 402 when he’s ready. When they get up to part ways outside the door of the cafe Castiel feels… _something_ , which only intensifies when Michael leans in and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

Castiel goes through the motions in a daze. He drives home, puts away his groceries; he showers, changes into jeans and a t-shirt, remembering Michael’s teasing about his ‘tax accountant’ clothing, and then drives back into Michael’s neighborhood at around five in the afternoon. The apartment complex isn’t secure, which is fairly common for this neighborhood, though it does make Castiel send his car a slightly longing glance. This isn’t a _bad_ neighborhood, but he is trained to see things with different eyes. 

Michael opens the door and yanks Castiel in by the front of his shirt, crashing their lips together and slamming the door closed with his foot. The chemistry is explosive. It’s only been four hours since they met and Castiel is dizzy with arousal and affection and _need_ , feeling all of those things bouncing back to him on a feedback loop where their mouths are connected. They discard their clothes while Michael leads them to the bedroom, Castiel barely giving the apartment a glance (save to make sure he won’t stub his toe on the coffee table). Inside Michael’s bedroom they fall into bed together, fully naked, rolling around, hands and mouths wandering.

Castiel feels… incredible. He feels sexy and wanted and nothing like the grey person he’d been transforming into for the past five years. He’d been so busy climbing the ranks, focusing on his work and ignoring the outside world, he hadn’t realized that he’d been losing parts of himself along the way. Things had been boring, dull, monotonous - until his cart crashed into Michael’s and his eyes were opened to a kaleidoscope of colors. 

Michael worships Castiel like he’s the most beautiful man on the planet. He licks and kisses all across his neck, chest and shoulders, sucking on his nipples and gripping his hips in strong, sturdy, calloused palms. He kisses down Castiel’s stomach, takes a lewd inhale of Castiel’s pubes, and then swallows him whole. Castiel’s taut as a bow; he can’t remember the last time he’d even casually hooked up with someone. He’s never had a relationship, not by a long shot, but he was no stranger to finding people to share a bed with occasionally. All those brief encounters fade completely from his mind as Michael works him to distraction, effectively shutting out the rest of the universe and narrowing Castiel’s world down to the way his mouth vacuums around his cock. 

“Top or bottom, babe,” Michael pants when he pulls off of Castiel’s dick, lifting a hand to wipe a mixture of drool and precum off of his wet mouth. 

“Whatever you want,” Castiel replies, breathless.

Michael smiles wolfishly, predatory, sending a zing of arousal through Castiel’s body. “How long you stayin’ tonight?” 

“Until you kick me out,” Castiel says bravely.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Michael shifts to lay out over Castiel’s body, pressing his sticky cheek to Castiel’s stubbly one so he can nibble at his ear as he murmurs, “If I have my way, I’ll never let you leave my sight.” 

“Please,” Castiel breathes, feeling vulnerable and, for once, completely ok with it. 

Things slow down a bit after that. Michael pulls back and loses his sense of urgency, seemingly satisfied with the fact that Castiel isn’t looking to beat it as soon as they finish copulating. He takes his time picking Castiel apart, his mouth buried between his legs, nose pressed up to Castiel’s scrotum as he tries to get his tongue as deep as possible into Castiel’s clenching, flexing asshole. Castiel feels sweat gather on their skin, enjoys the way he can’t get a grip on Michael’s shoulders because they’re both so slippery. Michael works him open slowly, tenderly, like this isn’t the first time, like they’ve done this exact thing so many times before now. 

Castiel has never really liked the term ‘making love’. It always seemed too flowery a term for an act that Castiel usually uses as a release of stress and tension, but when Michael puts on a condom and slides into him so slowly it feels like it takes years, Castiel understands the stupid adage, and can barely comprehend why he feels it with a near stranger. 

Limbs wrapped around one another, Castiel succumbs to the pleasure. He rarely bottoms, never liking giving up the control, but Michael… Michael is amazing, holding his head above the tidal wave while his body is tugged under the riptides of pleasure. He strokes Castiel’s cock, whispers pretty words and tender phrases into his ear, and when they both come they’re trembling, holding onto each other like they’ll float away if they let go. 

They’re sweaty and tangled as they lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Michael shifts to open the window above the bed, the breeze barely cool enough to help, but refreshing nonetheless. He flops back down with a satisfied chuckle, turning his head to regard Castiel, who turns his head to return the favor. 

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Michael asks softly.

“I don’t do this,” Castiel says before he can stop himself. Something about Michael has him feeling like he can say anything on his mind and meet no judgment. Something about Michael has him feeling like they’re… kindred spirits, of sorts. “I don’t meet people and have sex with them and tell them I would like to stay.”

“You’d like to stay?” Michael asks, grinning. “Like- post-orgasm, you still wanna stay with me?”

Rolling onto his side and slipping his arm under the pillow his head is resting on so he can prop his head up a bit, he nods. “Something about you, Michael…” 

“Y’know,” Michael looks a little sheepish as he shifts to mirror Castiel’s position. “I don’t do this, either. The uh, askin’ people to stay. Hell, I usually don’t ask people to coffee beforehand, either.”

“Straight to business?” Castiel muses.

“Straight to business,” Michael agrees, “wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.”

“You’re young,” Castiel says, “you can get away with it.”

Michael sends Castiel an amused glance. “Thirty-five ain’t ancient, Cas.”

“I’m not thirty-five _yet_ ,” Castiel bristles, but the corner of his lip quirks. “In any case… I don’t frequent, um, ‘hook-up’ places often enough to consider myself successful in the one night stand department.”

“Did you just air quote me?” Michael asks with a laugh.

Castiel rolls his eyes and reaches out to push Michael’s freckled shoulder. “Don’t mock me.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Michael chuckles, settling down again and regarding Castiel with his gorgeous eyes. “You never told me what you do for a living. Y’know, tax accountants _also_ don’t frequent hook-up places…”

“Quit with the tax accountant thing-”

“Stop looking like a tax accountant-”

“-I’m just too busy to be extra social.”

“You made time today,” Michael points out.

“I made myself make time today,” Castiel amends. Michael quiets at that, his gaze softening with something that shouldn’t be present within six hours of meeting someone. “I’m a federal agent.”

“No shit?” Michael’s grin is boyish and excited. “Ya got a badge? And gun?”

“Not on me,” Castiel can’t help but chuckle. “But I do.”

“What’s your rank? Do you work for the BAU? Oh, man, Criminal Minds is like, my favorite show.” 

The questions that Castiel usually tires of immediately are too charming coming from Michael, so he answers them patiently. “I’m currently a Special Agent. I’ve been to the BAU, but I don’t do profiling, though it does interest me. I do a lot of groundwork.”

“Takin’ out the bad guys?” Michael asks. He scoots a little closer, “Think you can cuff me, sometime?”

“That insinuates this being a repeat thing,” Castiel says with an arched brow, schooling his features. 

“Babe,” Michael reaches a hand out to Castiel’s hip, drawing their bodies close together, knees slotting and thighs pressing. “We both gotta leave for work in the morning, but I would not say no to coming home to you.” 

“I think we’re both overshooting this a bit,” Castiel says, trying to put himself back on the ground and be rational.

Michael doesn’t look put out at all. “Why? ‘Cause we realize we’re compatible and wanna run with it? That’s not overshooting, Cas. That’s seeing a good thing and not wantin’ to let it go.” 

“You’re very attractive, Michael,” Castiel says, lifting a hand to swipe his thumb over Michael’s plush lower lip. “You’re smart, sweet, and charming. But I…” he licks his lips. “I’m married to my work, as they say.”

“I’m low maintenance,” Michael says, tongue swiping out to lick at Castiel’s thumb. “We could be a weekend thing.”

“I rarely leave the office, even on weekends.” 

“Then you call me when you’re free.”

“You shouldn’t arrange your schedule to appease mine.”

“I could and I would, if it worked out.” 

“Michael,” Castiel finally says, exasperated. Michael’s still got a soft grin on his features, green eyes unguarded and filled with an affection Castiel isn’t quite sure how to process. “We just met.” 

“So we get to know each other. When your schedule allows,” Michael says with a shrug. 

Castiel sends Michael a bewildered look. “You can’t really think a relationship is that easy.” 

“Relationships are only as difficult as you make ‘em,” Michael says flippantly. His arms wind around Castiel’s body, their foreheads pressing together. Michael closes his eyes, brushing his nose to Castiel’s. “Somethin’ about you, Cas. I’ll kick myself forever if I let you walk out that door and don’t do everything in my power to see you again.” 

Castiel melts a little. Michael is so straightforward and honest with his affections and emotions, and while he seems to have lulled Castiel into a similar state of complacency, Castiel still has reservations. How strange is it, to meet someone by chance, then meet them again on purpose, and learn enough about them to want to continually see them, again, and again, and again? Castiel draws back only enough to run his eyes over Michaels’ relaxed features. Ginger lashes flutter open, Castiel counting the gold flecks in green irises, before he finally gives in.

It feels right.

“We can try.” 

Michael’s smile is the sun peeking through the grey clouds of Castiel’s life. 

\--

They make love through the night. Castiel knows he’s going to be sore and tired at work tomorrow, but he can’t find it in him to care. Michael rides him slow and lazy, Castiel’s hands wandering over his body, tracing faint scars and strong muscles. They break for food, Michael preparing drool-worthy burgers with sirloin from the Kiev market and produce that he admits he put in his cart after meeting Castiel. Michael’s apartment is sparsely furnished, which he explains is because he’s only been living in the area for two months and hadn’t been sure if the job he’d been working would be permanent (though, he says, today he received news that it would be a long-term job). They fill the space with banter and laughter, Michael’s stiff, new couch getting broken in by fucking Castiel over the arm of it and then again on the cushions. They take a shower together, Michael making a mohawk out of Castiel’s hair with the shampoo and then laughing when he accidentally gets soap in his mouth. They fall back into bed tangled up in each other like they do this all the time, like this isn’t the first time, and like it won’t be the last. 

Castiel knows it won’t be the last. 

He’s effectively entranced by Michael and everything about him. From the freckles on his skin to the way he intelligently argues the merits of bureau politics with Castiel, he’s… he’s nearly God damn perfect. Like he was made for Castiel. Castiel thinks he should maybe be more careful, maybe be wary of _how_ perfect Michael is, but… the part of his brain that he has ignored for so long whispers at him, _what’s the harm?_ , and Castiel gives into the way Michael’s laugh, touches, and kisses fill a hole in him that had been empty for so long. 

When they wake up in the morning, before either of their alarms, they make love again, sensual and slow, Michael spooned behind Castiel and rocking into him, unhurried and leisurely. Orgasm is a slow crest and they come down exchanging kisses and hums, before Michael extracts himself and says he’ll start breakfast. Castiel lies in bed for a bit longer, contemplating calling into work for the first time in probably ten years, but is drawn out of the covers with the temptation of seeing Michael cooking at the stove.

He freshens up in the bathroom before wandering into the kitchen. Michael is where Castiel knew he’d be, in front of the stove wearing only his boxers, scratching idly at his chest as he stirs hashbrowns in a pan. Castiel walks up behind him, settles into the sweet domesticity of, for once in his life, having a morning after. He peppers kisses across Michael’s skin, sucks a mark into his shoulder, and then tells him to turn off the burner so he can hoist the slightly larger man up onto the counter and finger him to orgasm. They clean up, laugh, finish cooking together, and eat. Michael grabs his cell phone off the counter and then groans when he sees the cracked screen, explaining he’d dropped it yesterday and probably needs to just go get it replaced. 

They get dressed together. Castiel will have to stop at his place to get a change of clothes, but he’s fine with that. Michael catches him by the waist in the foyer, kissing him softly and sweetly, swaying their bodies from side to side. 

“You’re incredible, Cas,” Michael murmurs.

“Mmm,” Castiel presses a kiss to the slope of Dean’s neck. “I could say the same for you.” 

They part only slightly, so they can look into each other’s eyes like fools in love, which Castiel knows they’re not, but has a feeling they could be, with time. 

Michael’s expression softens, some hesitation in his voice as he lifts a hand to cup Castiel’s face. “You say you’re married to work, right?” Castiel nods into his palm, curiosity spiking. “I’m… I’m kinda the same, y’know? You get a goal in mind and you know what you gotta do to accomplish it, and it just… kinda consumes you. I get it, man. There’s probably nothin’ much better than the satisfaction of a job well done, and doin’ that job _yourself_ is just real sweet. So: I won’t hold it against you if you won’t hold it against me, ok?” 

Castiel’s brow furrows a bit, even though his lips are curled in a fond smile. Michael looks… well, he looks like he’s unveiling earth-shattering information to Castiel, which honestly just has him mildly confused. He reaches up, putting his hand to Michael’s cheek in turn, drawing him in for a chaste, but sweet kiss. “I won’t hold it against you, Michael.”

“You promise?” Michael says, a strange urgency threading through his voice. He’s holding Castiel tight, pinning them together, his back to the door. “Promise me, Cas.”

“I promise,” Castiel says, holding Michael tightly in return, wondering what kind of work Michael does to make Castiel promise such a thing so early on in their relationship.

Michael’s expression relaxes, as he draws Castiel into a real hug, cradling his head and burying his face in the curve of his neck, like he’s shielding Castiel from the world.

The door explodes, they get blasted off their feet, and everything goes dark.

💀💀💀

Castiel wakes up in a cold sweat. It’s not the first time he’s had that dream, it won’t be the last, but that doesn’t make it any less unsettling. He untangles himself from the sheets of his bed, the comforter in a pile on the floor from his thrashing. Swinging his legs off the mattress and standing, he stumbles into his ensuite and flicks on the light, squinting through his pounding headache. He turns on the shower, ice cold, then takes off his boxers and gets in. The cold water sluicing over his skin helps calm his heart and distracts his mind from the lingering memories - they’re _memories_ , not a dream - and he makes his soap job quick before he gets out and drags a towel over his body.

When he gets back into his bedroom he sees his phone lighting up on the nightstand. It’s on silent because it’s three a.m., but because it’s three a.m., Castiel picks it up with a grunt.

“My office. Now.” Chief Singer’s voice is clipped, and he hangs up before Castiel can respond. 

Annoyed at large, Castiel pulls on a pair of black jeans and a blue henley, grabbing his badge and gun from his dresser. It doesn’t take long to get to the office, which is teeming even at this hour. Castiel tries not to wonder what Chief Singer is doing in his office at three a.m., and is sufficiently surprised when he enters the man’s office and sees a bunch of files and paperwork on his desk. Chief Singer normally keeps a clean space, even in the middle of investigations. Castiel stays quiet, which is always in his favor when it comes to the Chief, and stands in front of his desk in parade rest. 

“Sit yer ass down, boy,” Chief Singer snaps. 

Castiel sits. 

“I been lookin’ through some things,” Chief Singer gestures at the papers on his desk. “Remember, ‘bout four years ago, Dean Winchester got blown up and kidnapped?”

A muscle ticks in Castiel’s jaw. “Yes, sir. That’s what started the investigation into him and Crowley.”

“Right,” Chief Singer nods. He puts his elbows on the desk, steeples his fingers together, and pins Castiel to his chair with his gaze. “Two of Crowley’s boys had a similar accident.” 

Staying calm and keeping his expression placid, Castiel manages to say, “Interesting.” 

“Boy, I’ll say,” Chief Singer says with false joviality. “And y’know, the hospital that was tendin’ to ‘em called to ask after an agent that had gone and visted ‘em. Odd, she said, that one of ‘em got visited by an agent and died.” Castiel says nothing. “Now I find this all very, very interestin’, Novak, ‘cause I know you had Bradbury ping these two guys. I also happen to know that you took off for a few weeks, and by the time you came back, those two were old news.” 

There are a few ways this could play out. Chief Singer could call Castiel out on his bullshit and suspend him, take his badge and gun and pull him off the Crowley case. Chief Singer could commend Castiel on a job well done, but firmly remind him, as usual, that there are parameters and guidelines that an agent must work through, and Castiel would do well to remember them. Chief Singer could fire him on the spot. Chief Singer could literally do anything to Castiel and he would accept it, because Castiel, in his dark twisted heart, will never, ever regret watching the life leave Lucifer’s eyes. 

Even if Castiel never catches Crowley, he took out the men that had hurt him… and taken away every single promise made that fateful morning. That is something that he can live with and be satisfied with. 

“What is your relationship with Winchester, Novak?” 

Castiel’s heart seizes in his chest. Of all the things for Chief Singer to single out, that had not crossed Castiel’s mind. He’d expected to be called out on his lack of control, his lack of protocol, his general disregard for the bureau… but not this. Nothing direct to Dean himself.

“He gives me information on criminals in Crowley’s ring.” 

“How much of that information has been accurate?”

“One-hundred percent, sir.”

“And how much of that information has led to takedowns of high profile criminals?”

“One-hundred percent, sir.” 

“How do you get Winchester to talk?” 

Castiel’s fingers squeeze his knees where they’re bent. “He gets privileges.” 

“Like what?”

“His own cell. His own bed. Books, a desk. Private bathroom. Twenty-four-seven escort. One hour of television a day.” 

“What do _you_ offer him?” 

“Conversation.” 

“What kinda conversations do you have with a man like Winchester?” 

Castiel’s knuckles turn white. “Remarkable ones. Winchester is incredibly intelligent and well-spoken.” 

“Hard to believe a backwoods boy from B.F.E. Kansas with no GED can engage the one and only Castiel Novak in good conversation.” 

“He’d surprise you,” Castiel says through his teeth. 

Chief Singer quiets, staring at Castiel in a way that makes Castiel think the phrase ‘burn holes through your skull’ could come to fruition. Chief Singer is someone that Castiel respects, but he’s not someone that Castiel fears. He’s unsure of Chief Singer’s angle with this conversation, though. He glances down to the papers sprawled over Chief Singer’s desk, not bothering to hide his curiosity. 

“Prison logs,” Chief Singer finally says. “Along with all of your incident reports since the day you found Winchester in the dumpster.”

Yes, because that’s the day everyone thinks Castiel met Dean for the first time. 

“You’ve always been a good agent, Novak. Little screwed in the head, but the bureau has come to recognize that sometimes you gotta catch crazy with crazy. And you, Novak, are one crazy sonuvabitch,” Chief Singer says. There’s no amusement in his voice. Castiel stays quiet. “But since you got into contact with Winchester…” Chief Singer rubs his temples idly, looking weary and tired. “You gotta clean up your act, boy.” 

Castiel lowers his eyes ever so slightly. 

“Alpha, the guy you interviewed in jail, was killed a couple days ago,” Chief Singer holds up a file. “Some of Crowley’s men got to him.”

“How unfortunate,” Castiel says blandly. 

Chief Singer lets out a sigh. “Well, you’re all caught up.”

“Chief Singer,” Castiel says, voice low. “It’s nearly four a.m.; this couldn’t have waited until I clocked on at eight?” 

Chief Singer’s eyes narrow. “No, ya idjit, it couldn’t. I got people _I_ gotta report to, y’know. And your little errand to Detroit nearly had me in hot water.” 

Castiel doesn’t confirm or deny that it was him in Detroit. Chief Singer knows he won’t. 

“Outta my sight, Novak.”

“Thank you, sir.”

💀💀💀

Castiel stares at his work in his spare bedroom. All the ties to Crowley through various criminals and incidents; multiple photos have giant X’s on them, those people dead and out of the game. Crowley’s circle is getting smaller and smaller. If one were to look at the system like a pyramid, Crowley’s looking pretty lonely up at the top. With Lucifer, Asmodeus, and Alastair all gone, that leaves a huge gap between the top tier gangsters and the small fries that do menial work.

In the middle of everything is a photo of Dean. 

Castiel knows that Dean holds every single bit of information on Crowley’s gang. He knows that Dean had been conditioned to memorize information, like a prostitute time capsule, ready to give up information on the right date at the right time for the right person. He just can’t figure out what Dean’s work relation is to Crowley. He’s gathered that Dean had been the community whore, he’s gathered that Crowley had used him for undercover operations to gather information in ways that the other criminals simply couldn’t. 

Castiel can’t figure out _when_ Dean started working for Crowley. 

He’s given up on trying to find Crowley himself; no one has seen him for a few years. Some intel says that Crowley’s expensive taste and bourgeoise personality led him to a tropical location to work remotely. Castiel knows that if he shakes enough trees he’ll be able to figure out exactly where Crowley is - in the meantime, though, he knows it’s dangerous to play the waiting game. Crowley is probably the most powerful man in the entire world, with so much at his disposal… Castiel is only working the United States. Who knows what contacts and connections Crowley has in other countries? 

Running a hand over his face, Castiel exits the room, shutting off the light and closing the door. It’s late, and he’d promised Charlie that he’d visit her tomorrow. He goes through his bedtime routine, crawls between the sheets, settling down onto his pillow. His bed is a queen size, plenty of space for a man of his size, but he naturally sleeps towards the right side of the bed. He often tells himself that it’s because it’s the side closest to the door, but a little, tiny, barely-heard voice in the back of his head reminds him that Dean prefers to sleep on the left side. 

Sometimes, as he falls asleep, he feels the ghost-press of Dean’s lips against the back of his neck, the ghost-weight of an arm draped over his waist. 

He’d promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to those of you chugging through this as a wip!  
> all your comments and inquiries help fuel me.  
> i'm updating this a lot more frequently than i thought i would.  
> (watch that turn into a jinx...)  
> i know we've gotten into some weird kinks and i'd like to tell you i've got it all outta my system but hhhahahaha i still got some up my sleeve ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder to check tags.  
> there is a (very) brief scene that could be considered piss drinking.

💀💀💀

According to Castiel's sources - or source, rather, one Charlie Bradbury - _Zeke's Bar & Grill_ houses some of Crowley's lesser-known cronies. At first glance it doesn't seem all that special: there's a girl puking in the bushes outside, her friend rubbing her back and telling her that she'll “be alright, Jake was a jerk anyway”; there's a cluster of bikers inside taking up a whole table, drinking but not drunk, taking turns playing pool and wagering friendly bets; there's a guy playing guitar on a small stage, strumming versus actually performing, setting nice background music. The booths are full of the old, the young, the rich and the poor. Zeke's is a melting pot.

Castiel sticks out like a sore thumb. 

He's just wearing one of his simpler suits, royal blue in color, no tie. His hair is wild, shoes shiny. His badge and gun are hidden from plain sight - no one should be sizing him up like he's a cop.

Except they are.

And he technically is.

Approaching the bar, Castiel pulls out a stool and sits on it. The bartender is one of the people Castiel is looking for. Zeke is tall and slender, unassuming at first. But his eyes are sharp as they zero in on Castiel, calculating and thoughtful as he approaches, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. 

"Evening," Zeke greets.

"Good evening," Castiel replies. "Whiskey, neat. Please." He shifts on the stool so he can pull his wallet out of his back pocket. The motion moves his suit jacket, revealing the straps of his shoulder holster subtly, but purposefully. 

Zeke takes the offered bill with a raised eyebrow and a nod. "What brings you to this part of town?"

"Business," Castiel says.

"Mine, or yours?" Zeke asks smartly, sliding over the tumbler of whiskey.

Castiel picks up the glass, taking a sip. "I think we can come across something mutually beneficial."

Zeke studies him for a moment, then gets called away by another customer. Castiel busies himself by turning his gaze up to the television where a football game is playing on low volume. When Zeke returns, he levels Castiel's gaze.

"You're that Novak guy, aren't you?"

Castiel blinks, mildly surprised and unnerved. He's recognizable?

Zeke must see the thoughts running through Castiel's brain because he says, "Didn't know what you looked like, but your attitude is everything everyone talks about."

"I don't have an 'attitude'," Castiel narrows his eyes, lifting his glass to his mouth.

Zeke's lips curl lightly. "If you 'didn’t have an attitude', how else would I have recognized you?”

Castiel scowls, setting his whiskey glass down. “If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here.”

Smiling placidly, Zeke spreads his hands out on either side of himself, gesturing vaguely. “This is a bar, and you’re drinking whiskey. Seems to me like you might be looking to unwind after a stressful day.”

Setting down his glass, Castiel folds his forearms on the bartop, hooking the toes of his shoes on the stool so he can leverage himself to lean towards Zeke, creating an intimate, private space between them. “If you give me what I want, I will leave here quietly.” 

“Depends on what you want, friend,” Zeke says, putting his palms down on the bartop, leaning in as well. 

Caught in a stalemate, Castiel knows he’s got the patience to wait the man out, however long he takes. He’ll stay here all night if he has to. As far as he knows, Zeke hasn’t committed any violent crimes. He’s an information keeper, somewhat similar to what Dean had been, a liaison between criminals to help pass messages and keep tasks afloat. _Zeke’s_ has seen plenty of criminal traffic, though no crimes have actually taken place at the establishment outside of the occasional standard bar fight.

The opportunity to wait Zeke out is interrupted when a man smashes through the swinging doors to the right of the bar that lead to the kitchen. He’s playing air guitar, mullet swinging as he headbangs, miraculously walking straight without looking where he’s going. Castiel’s attention is drawn to him immediately, surprised at the loud interruption. A few patrons cheer and greet the man, calling out for “Dr. Badass”, which causes the man to give a grandiose twirl and bow, acknowledging his audience. He swivels on foot and plops down on the stool next to Castiel, leaning an elbow against the bar and immediately getting into Castiel’s space. 

“Howdy, partner,” Dr. Badass says.

Castiel has no idea who this man is. He hasn’t seen his picture among the data that Charlie had gathered about _Zeke’s_. The man’s aloof attitude causes Castiel to scoff and relax his posture slightly, picking up his tumbler for another drink.

“What brings you ‘round these parts?” The man continues. He drags his eyes blatantly up and down Castiel’s frame, chewing the corner of his bottom lip. “I’d remember a sight like you. Whatcha drinkin’? I’ll buy next round.”

“Not interested,” Castiel says tersely.

“Aw, c’mon now,” Dr. Badass leans in to whisper, “We accept all kindsa folk here, y’know. You look like you need the stick removed. Or, hell,” he barks a laugh, “maybe you need one inserted!”

Castiel cuts him a sharp look. “I’d rather not keep company.” 

“Hmmm,” the man squints thoughtfully, then grins and sticks out his hand. “Ash, Dr. Badass, at your stick-removal service, should you choose to accept it.”

Giving Ash an incredibly unimpressed look, Castiel finishes off his whiskey and slides the glass towards Zeke, who looks equal parts fond and amused by Ash’s antics. He refills the glass, accepts the bill that Castiel hands him, and then shuffles away from the pair. Resigned, and annoyed, Castiel knocks back the whiskey in one go. 

“Ol’ Zeke sure is a character, huh?” Ash talks like he doesn’t care if Castiel responds or not. Maybe he doesn’t. “A little too quiet for a bartender if ya ask me. ‘Tenders, y’know, they’re supposed to be like unwilling therapists.” 

“Therapists listen,” Castiel says idly, staring at the football game on screen to keep himself from clocking Ash across the jaw. 

“Shit yeah they do,” Ash agrees enthusiastically, “but then they offer advice!”

“I’d rather not ask the advice of a bartender.” 

“Ain’t that whatchu here for?” 

This makes Castiel look at Ash again. For all aloof and carefree the man acts, Castiel now sees the glint in his eyes. Assessing. Cautious. 

“I’m looking for information, not advice.” 

“There’s a difference, huh?” Ash queries, idly stroking the scraggly hair on his chin.

“There is. And unless you can provide me the information I’m looking for, then I suggest you make merry with someone else.”

“Here’s the thing, boss,” Ash says, resuming his position of leaning in to Castiel’s personal space, “the information superhighway runs directly through _my_ noggin.” He flashes a wide smile. “And for the right price, I can tell ya whatever you want.” 

Castiel sends Zeke a calculating glance. The bartender is loading a dishwasher, back turned towards Castiel and Ash, his movements focused and easy. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Castiel finally shifts to turn slightly towards Ash. “How do I know you have the information I want? My sources led me here to Zeke. Not…” Castiel allows his gaze to wander distastefully over Ash’s worn tank top, crunchy leather vest, and torn jeans. “...you.”

“And that’s exactly how I play my game!” Ash crows. “Zeke, beer me!”

Zeke tosses a can of beer to Ash, who catches it deftly and immediately smashes it against his forehead so he can shotgun it. He finishes the beer in two large gulps, tosses the crushed can over his shoulder, then wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. 

“I bet you wanna know where Crowley is, huh?”

Castiel shoots a hand out, gripping Ash’s tank top and leather vest in one solid, vice grip. He yanks the man off of the stool and brings him to his nose, Castiel’s voice a low growl and Ash’s eyes wide in surprise. “I will not play games. Tell me where he is.”

“Woah woah, easy compadre,” Ash says in a shrill voice, lifting his hands in supplication. “I’ll tell ya! Easy on the goods!”

Castiel drops him. Ash straightens out his cruddy clothes, flicks his mullet over his shoulder, then resumes his seat on his stool - this time not in Castiel’s bubble. 

“Shoot. Ya just gotta ask, y’know, people here got _manners_.”

“Do not,” Castiel’s voice is a low, dangerous rumble, “waste my time.”

Ash knocks on the counter and snaps his fingers. Castiel’s whiskey gets refilled, Ash gets a beer (in a glass, this time), and then Ash squares up to talk. “Crowley’s off the grid, man. Made one little rant about wantin’ to be somewhere near the equator, away from all the idiots.” Zeke cuts him a look, to which Ash replies, “What? Those’re _his_ words.” Turning towards Castiel, Ash shrugs. “Crowley’s a pretty high maintenance dude. For a crime lord he sure is a priss. Anyway, he took off…” he counts on his fingers. “Two years ago? Give ‘er take. Does a lot of his work remotely.” A bit of a whine creeps into Ash’s voice. “I coulda used a vacation too, y’know?” 

Castiel absorbs the information. Crowley isn’t even in the country? “How is he giving orders?”

“Over the horn,” Ash says with a shrug. 

“He’s still hands-on even though he’s not physically around?”

“Wouldn’t you? His ring’s big, man. There’s no way he’d be able to get out even if he wanted to, not counting the fact that he’s the big kahuna. Nah, he’s stuck with all of us whether he likes it or not. Honestly no one was surprised when he said he wanted to get away from us all. So he could ‘hear himself think’ or whatever,” Ash says, fingers making air quotes.

It could be the whiskey, it could be the information, but Castiel’s head spins slightly. Something is odd, though. Something is… off. “Why are you giving this information to me?” 

“Like I said,” Ash says with a shrug. He turns to face the bar, picking up his beer with a grin. “‘Round here we got manners.”

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel regards Ash. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Pfft,” Ash throws his head back in a laugh, blond hair cascading. “Hell naw, man! Ain’t no one Dr. Badass reports to ‘cept Dr. Badass. And occasionally Dr. Sexy.” He winks, taking a deep drink of his beer. 

Castiel thought he had a pin on the hierarchy of Crowley’s gang, but meeting Ash has thrown a lot out of whack. Rubbing his temples idly, Castiel throws another bill on the counter for Zeke, then stands. He sends Ash a curious look, gets met with a flirtatious smile, and then says stiffly, “Thank you for your time.” 

“Shoot, next time you come, drinks on the house,” Ash says, gaze once again lingering all over Castiel’s body now that he can see all of it.

Tonguing his inner cheek, Castiel leans in so he can murmur just for Ash’s ears, “You couldn’t handle me.” 

Ash’s eyes flash wicked, and knowing. “Oh, Blue Eyes. I know you got someone who can.”

💀💀💀

“Another gift?” Dean asks, eyeing the slender box in Castiel’s hands.

“Another reward for after our conversation,” Castiel confirms. 

“Alright, what’s today’s topic?” Dean asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

Castiel remains standing, holding the box in front of him in a white-knuckled grip. “Dr. Badass.” 

It’s so minute, the emotion that flickers across Dean’s face. It gets erased immediately, an easy smile crossing Dean’s features. “Ol’ Ash, huh? You found him?”

“I find it curious that I _had_ to find him,” Castiel says conversationally. “You’ve never mentioned him. Charlie’s data doesn’t have a single trace of him or his moniker. I had the strangest encounter with him the other day.”

“Most encounters with that one are strange,” Dean agrees easily, leaning back on his hands. 

A flash of irritation passes through Castiel. “Need I remind you, Dean, that omitting the truth is a roundabout way to lie?”

Dean’s posture tenses ever so slightly. “No, you don’t gotta remind me.”

“Tell me who Ash is and why you’ve never mentioned him before.”

Dean lets out a rough breath, causing his lips to raspberry. “Ash is a ghost, man. He exists and doesn’t exist at the same time. He was never a key player in Crowley’s world. Technically, he don’t work for the dude. S’why I never mentioned him. Didn’t seem too important.” 

“ _Everything_ is important, Dean.” Castiel doesn’t hide the irritation in his voice. 

“You want me to draw you a friggin’ picture?” Dean goes on the defensive, tensing his jaw. 

“A diagram of Crowley’s hierarchy would be very helpful, yes,” Castiel says seriously.

Dean blinks, then bursts out into laughter. He slumps his shoulders forward a bit, covers his eyes with his hand, and takes a few deep breaths to calm. “I’ll get right on it, bud.”

Rolling his eyes a little, Castiel waits for Dean’s giggles to subside. “Ash seems to hold quite a bit of information. Did you know that Crowley is no longer in the states?”

“No shit?” Dean asks, arching a brow. He tips his head back, staring up at the blank slate grey of the ceiling. “That douche was always talking about buying a remote tropical island to get away from all us idiots.” Something ticks in Castiel’s head. Dean continues, “But hey, if he’s doing things remotely, that means the gang’s weak. Lucifer, Asmodeus, and Alastair are all taken care of. Roman’s in jail, Alpha’s dead. There’s one other key player, goes by ‘Azazel’. Dunno where he is or what he’s doin’, but I met that guy once and…” Dean shudders. “Gave me the heebie jeebies. Like to get rid of him on principle alone.”

“Dean,” Castiel nearly crinkles the box in his hands. “How much information have you kept from me?” 

Dean looks at Castiel like he’s about to explain something to a five year old, “You’re the one who set the stipulations, babe. Orgasm for info. One orgasm gives you one piece of info. Pretty big ones, too, y’know. I ain’t stingy.”

“Are these stipulations set in stone?” 

“No,” Dean frowns slightly. “You wanna change the deal?” 

Castiel clenches and unclenches his jaw. On the one hand, he knows if he asked, Dean would go belly up and tell him everything he wants to know. They could stop this charade, the visits, the games… Dean could give Castiel everything he wants and Castiel could go on to make the biggest bust of the century. All of this could be over in a matter of months, and Castiel would never have to see Dean ever again. Dean would rot in prison for his consecutive life sentences, never to see the light of day or breathe air that hasn’t been filtered through a vent. His concrete hotel would be all he knows, Benny his only friend.

On the other hand… if Castiel doesn’t change the deal, then he and Dean carry on.

Looking at Dean now, wearing the powder blue scrubs and an open expression, brow relaxed, lips slightly parted, six feet of muscle and deadly force… Castiel knows he won’t change the deal.

“Tell me about Ash.” 

“Genius,” Dean replies quickly. “Like, Einstein smart, swear to God. S’why Charlie didn’t have any information on him. He appears when he wants, disappears when he chooses. A spectre. He’s got a gross mullet, awful fashion sense, and almost always smells like beer, but he’s loyal.” A small smirk curls over Dean’s lips. “I never charged him when I sucked him off.”

The hair on the back of Castiel’s neck stands up. “What is his gig?”

“Shmoozer. Ash ain’t big, and that’s the point of him. Gets in where people least expect it.”

“A mole?” 

“Kinda. More like… unassuming witness.” Dean leans back on his hands again. “Ash is the last person anyone expects for anything.”

Castiel thinks about how surprised he’d been when Ash had burst into the bar, playing air guitar and goading the crowd. “Indeed.” 

“Anyway, if y’ask me, he’s one of the good ones.”

Something ugly curls in Castiel’s gut. “I didn’t.”

“Testy,” Dean smirks. “Do I get my reward, now?”

“I wouldn’t say you behaved particularly well,” Castiel says. 

“I gave you the information you wanted _before_ orgasm,” Dean pouts. “Doesn’t that count for somethin’?” 

Castiel taps the box idly with a finger. “I suppose so. When did you wash your genitals last?”

Dean lets out a loudly fake, wanton moan, “Oh, baby, love it when you talk dirty-” Castiel huffs in irritation, Dean settling down with a grin. “Soon as I heard you were on your way, handsome.”

“Strip, then lie out on the bed.”

Dean hurries to comply. He stands up and pulls off his clothes without fanfare, folding them and putting them neatly on the chair at the desk. Castiel allows his eyes to rove over every inch of golden skin exposed, traces over the curves of Dean’s muscular body quietly, then hums in approval when Dean lies back on the bed, propped on his elbows, legs slightly spread. Stepping forward, Castiel holds the box out towards Dean, feeling a little thrill starting to swirl in the base of his gut. Dean’s excitement is innocent in every word as he opens the box, Castiel thinking that it’s been quite a long time since Dean had received gifts, up until the panties, and now, with this.

“Holy shit, you serious?” Dean asks. He sits up straight, criss-crossing his legs as he rests the box on his ankles, setting the lid aside on the blankets. He doesn’t pull the item out, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glimmering with desire. 

“Very, if you’ll let me,” Castiel says. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a ziploc baggie, a pair of vinyl gloves inside. “It’s been a while for me, but I do quite enjoy this particular activity.” 

“Fuck yeah,” Dean breathes out. He clearly knows that he shouldn’t touch the item with his bare hands, even if he is just recently showered. He shifts, handing the box over towards Castiel, then lies out again. “What do I gotta do?”

“Relax,” Castiel instructs, putting on the gloves and taking the metal rod out of the box along with the lube he’d packed with it. “Don’t get fully erect.”

“Easier said than done,” Dean says with idle amusement. He settles into the soft blankets, lids heavy as he wriggles in anticipation. “What position?”

“Legs slightly spread. I will be sitting next to you,” Castiel maps his movements verbally as he sits on the bed next to Dean. The rod in his hands is slim, only a few millimeters in diameter, and measures at seven and a half inches - one inch longer than Dean’s penis. There’s a bulb at one end that will keep the sound from disappearing, Castiel fingering it idly as he contemplates Dean. 

So far they have never had an explicit conversation about their so-called kink lists; someone brings something up, and the other either agrees or disagrees. Granted, a few things have entered the game spur of the moment, but they've managed to handle those instances with grace (and, fortunately, extreme arousal). Introducing Dean to a sound had been a gamble, and if Dean said no, Castiel would have wrapped it back up and suggested something else on the fly. But Dean, beautiful, curious Dean, puts his trust and his body in Castiel's hands time and time again. 

It's a heady feeling. 

Dean has murdered, thieved, and fucked his way through countless situations. Through investigations as well as Dean's own testimony in trial, it had been easy to learn that the man has deep-rooted control issues. No matter the task, he's come out on top, and stomped all over whoever he could to get there. Pure survival instincts, fight or flight.

This Dean, though - this Dean isn't turning tricks for money, this Dean isn't robbing banks, this Dean isn't slicing throats. This Dean is pliant for Castiel, this Dean reacts for Castiel, this Dean _exists_ for Castiel.

Castiel has been in over his head since the day they met.

“Tell me if anything hurts or is uncomfortable,” Castiel instructs. They don’t have a safeword, they don’t even use the stoplight system. Their game is dangerous, and that is precisely how they engineer it. Dean just nods, gnawing on his lower lip as he looks down his body at his cock, which is already plumping up. 

Castiel lubes the rod, spreading the liquid around quickly and efficiently. With his clean, gloved hand, he cradles Dean’s cock in his palm, arranging his fingers so that he can push the foreskin back to reveal the glistening head, already sticky with arousal. Dean’s doing a good job of keeping an erection at bay, his hands fisting in the blankets at his sides. Gently, Castiel presses the end of the rod to Dean’s urethra, testing the give. Dean barely tenses, his hole malleable as Castiel gently wriggles the rod around. He swipes lubed fingers around the hole before he takes a somewhat firm grip on Dean’s penis, holding it carefully as he gently starts working the rod in.

Castiel has done this to himself on a few occasions. He likes the sensation of his hole stretching, likes the almost ticklish slide of the metal pressing against parts of his anatomy that normally don’t receive stimulation. He knows the same sensations are filtering through Dean’s body, the man’s expression alternating between blissed out and mildly unsure, no doubt getting used to the sensation. Castiel gets the sound in about a third of the way when he meets resistance. He carefully pulls the sound out, reapplies lube, and then reinserts it. At the stopping point he gently massages Dean’s penis, coaxing the muscles to shift and relax and allow the intrusion. This gentle back and forth happens for about six minutes before the sound is fully inserted, the bauble at the end resting an inch and a half away from the head of Dean’s penis.

“Hold it,” Castiel says.

Dean reaches down to gently cradle his penis, his eyes blinking a bit wider open so he can see the sound sticking out of it. He massages experimentally, sucks in a breath, then lets out a little chuckle. “Feels like I gotta piss… but better.” 

“You’ll be able to relieve yourself as soon as we remove it,” Castiel says. He stands up, beginning to undress. “As this is a delicate procedure, we’ll get you used to the sensation of having the sound inserted before going on to other routes of pleasure.”

“How long s’that gonna take?” Dean asks, already breathless, a pretty flush spreading from his cheeks down to his chest. 

“Not long. As soon as you’re comfortable, you may give yourself an erection.” 

Exhaling through plush lips, Dean keeps his penis in his palm, dropping his head back. Castiel drinks in the long, lean lines of Dean’s muscular body; the bulk of his shoulders, the swell of his pecs, the flex of his abs, the cut of his hips, the meat of his thighs. All of these masculine traits are offset by his sandy hair, ginger lashes; the freckles smattered on his skin, the softness of his plush, sinful mouth, the height of his cheekbones. Castiel has thought Dean beautiful since the moment he met him, and no matter what they go through, no matter the topic or reason for a visit… every time Castiel sees Dean in person, he feels that much closer to God, because surely Dean is a warrior angel sent down to test and tempt Castiel.

A man this beautiful couldn’t be a demon.

A man this pure couldn’t be evil.

Dean’s hand starts moving. His cock fills rapidly, his toes curling as the flesh hardens to stiffness with the sound inside. Castiel watches Dean’s eyes, cataloguing the way they zero in on the sound in his hole, pretty green irises dark with lust as he no doubt feels the way the sound stimulates his hole with each thrust. For a moment he loses focus, his fingers jerking him slowly and languidly, his eyes closing and head dropping back again as he shudders bodily. When he opens his eyes and looks at Castiel, he suddenly rethinks the whole ‘couldn’t be a demon’ train of thought, because the expression on Dean’s face is pure _sin_.

“Fuck, baby, m’ gonna use this sound to stretch out my pisshole and then I want you to- ah-” Dean groans, spreading his legs and bending his knees. His eyes are dark as they lock on Castiel’s. “I want your cock in my ass and one of your pretty fingers in my pisshole, please, please Cas-” 

“Shhh,” Castiel’s body is moving before his brain can catch up, Dean’s demand-slash-request shaking his bones. 

“Need you to fill all of my holes,” Dean begs during sex, but he rarely gets whiny. His voice is currently on the verge, which has Castiel acting before he can think twice about it. When Castiel’s hand closes around his hard cock Dean lets his body deflate into the mattress, his hands lifting to grip Castiel’s shoulders tightly. “Fuck, _yes_ , you’re so good to me baby.” 

The sensation of touching Dean while wearing the vinyl gloves is a little strange, the material dragging and catching on Dean’s skin where perspiration isn’t slicking the way. But Castiel is methodical and clean and wants to make sure Dean won’t have any complications as the result of this endeavor, so the gloves stay on. He and Dean work together to stroke his cock, Castiel trying to keep his visceral reactions down on lock as he sees the sound’s length disappearing and reappearing with every stroke of Dean’s cock, his urethra welcoming the intrusion beautifully. Castiel leaves Dean’s hand on his cock so he can busy himself with prepping his ass, cursory swipes and presses of lube and fingers, the act of preparation more habit than necessary, anymore. Dean’s always tight, but he always likes the burn, so Castiel, unless the purpose is to finger fuck the man to completion, usually doesn’t spend a lot of time on it. 

This time, the loud moan Dean lets out as Castiel’s cock presses into him is one-hundred percent real. It shakes down Castiel’s bones, rattling his ribcage and making his dick twitch inside Dean’s ass as their bodies merge. Castiel rocks slowly, making sure he doesn’t jar the sound, but Dean wipes caution out of his brain when he reaches down to squeeze his own balls, fist working quickly over his cock as he begs Castiel to wreck him.

Coordinating everything he wants to do takes a lot of brain power and physical control, but Castiel manages. His strokes into Dean are long and deep, dragging and purposeful as he grabs the man’s cock and carefully pulls the sound out. Dean’s pisshole is empty only for a fraction of a second before Castiel’s lubed pinky finger replaces it, both Dean and Castiel watching in aroused awe as his urethra stretches and accommodates the new girth. Feeling Dean’s heat around his cock and his finger at the same time, in two totally different places, threatens to short-circuit Castiel’s brain. Dean keeps him online with his blunt fingernails digging into Castiel’s biceps, a chorus of “fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuck” falling from his lips. Castiel’s cock and finger work in tandem, and when he thinks Dean can handle it, he switches his pinky for his middle finger, plunging it down while holding his dick upright with his other hand.

It’s magnificent. Dean’s cock is so hard it’s purple, his skin flushed all over, tears of pleasure streaming out of his eyes as he thrashes his head on the pillow. Castiel’s body rocks in rhythm, cock in, finger out, cock out, finger in. The rhythm falters occasionally but neither of them care, too caught up in the dual sensations. 

“Fuck, baby, you fill me so fucking good,” Dean starts babbling at some point, voice scratchy and low. “Fill me up like no one else, best I ever had, baby, baby, please please fill all my holes, please stuff me up, oh my God-”

Castiel’s rational brain has taken a hike. So enthralled with the feeling of fucking both of Dean’s holes, Dean’s words wind through Castiel’s lizard brain and draw him forward. In order to fill all of his holes, Dean’s mouth needs to be occupied.

For the first time in almost five years, Castiel’s tongue fills that space. 

The kiss takes him back and grounds him at the same time. Dean’s mouth is hot, pliant, sweet like nectar and just as perfect as it’d been on that fateful morning after. He lets out a surprised moan at Castiel’s messy, tongue-y kiss, but then his arms are wrapping around Castile’s shoulders to draw him in, meeting his mouths’ movements hungrily. Castiel is in every part of Dean that will allow him in; cock in his ass, finger in his pisshole, tongue nearly down his throat. It’s demanding, owning, _intoxicating_. Dean breaks the kiss first to brokenly announce his impending orgasm; Castiel nips, kisses, and bites at his lips, unable to stop tasting him. He removes his finger and pulls his head back just in time to see the cum gushing from Dean’s cock like a volcano, a thick flood instead of the usual ropes, thanks to his urethra being stretched out. Wave after wave erupts and Castiel pulls out so he can bend over Dean’s cock, sealing his lips over the stretched tip to start licking and swallowing - Dean’s fingers fly into his hair, trying to pull him away.

“Gonna piss, Cas-!”

Castiel stays in place as Dean’s still-hard cock gives a twitch. The piss flow hits the back of his throat so hard he nearly coughs, having to pull back as he swallows, a hand moving to wrap around Dean’s cum-covered cock and jerk it while he releases his bladder. The stream hits Castiel’s mouth, jaw, sprays down his neck and chest, Dean squirming and moaning helplessly. When Dean’s bladder is empty Castiel sits back on his heels, using the mixture of piss and cum to jack himself to completion, making sure to angle his body and his cock, orgasm shaking through his bones as he adds his own cum to the mess on Dean’s groin. 

Castiel kissed Dean. Of all they've done, that's what causes Castiel to lose some composure and reel back, getting off of the bed. He takes off the wet vinyl gloves with a few shaky snaps, throws them in the trash, then moves to the sink. His intention is to clean himself off, get dressed and leave, but the heady and intense orgasm has his limbs weak and trembling, his brain on overload. He stands at the sink, hands on either side of it, head hanging as he tries to collect his breath. 

Don't panic.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice is soft, unsure. They just had an intense session - and while normally Castiel is alright getting dressed and leaving, something about this time is… different. Grabbing a soft cloth towel to wet it and clean himself off, he wrings it out before walking over to Dean to give him the same treatment. Dean's watching him cautiously, knowing not to speak unless spoken to while Castiel is like this. Once they're both clean, Castiel pulls on his boxers and sits in the desk chair, regarding Dean as his heart rate finally slows to normalcy. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," Dean replies. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, but his eyes are still cautious. "That was one hell of an orgasm. Gonna have to request a bed change."

"My apologies for the mess," Castiel says automatically.

Dean rolls his eyes, sitting up. "No biggie, Cas. You good?"

Castiel thinks, then settles on, "I kissed you."

Dean's eyes light up, but he contains any other reaction. "You did."

"That wasn't supposed to happen."

Those pretty green eyes turn guarded, Dean putting up walls to protect himself. "Shit happens, man. Heat of the moment, or whatever." He gets up, pulling on his clothes. "You can go now."

Castiel frowns slightly. This is why he hasn't kissed Dean. It's too personal, too… close. Emotions long bottled up for years - for both of them - are bubbling to the surface, and Castiel desperately needs to put a lid on both of them, for both their sakes. “Dean-”

“No, I get it Cas, I do,” Dean cuts him off, back turned to him as he starts stripping his bed. “Just go.” 

Something heavy like hurt passes through Castiel’s chest. Dean has never dismissed Castiel before, usually doing quite the opposite by asking him to stay just a little longer. Castiel has ignored all of his requests in the past, but this time, something causes him to hesitate. That awful something sitting like lead in his chest, weighing down into his gut.

Feet heavy, Castiel turns to leave. Outside of Dean’s cell Benny arches a brow towards Castiel, which gets ignored in favor of Castiel walking briskly away from Dean’s room. He doesn’t release the breath caught in his tight chest until he’s back through security and has all of his personal effects, checking his phone to see a missed call from Charlie. Glancing around the parking lot to make sure he won’t get run over, Castiel dials her back, holding his phone up to his ear. 

“Red Hot’s Hotline, couldn’t wait to call me back, Agent Dreamy?” 

“You didn’t leave a voicemail.” 

“Right,” some clacking comes from Charlie’s end. “I got a lead on Sam Winchester. It’s not huge, but I know where his paper trail ends.”

“Where?” Castiel asks, hurrying to his car and unlocking it. 

“Austin, Texas. And get this: Sam Winchester’s paper trail ends… right where Sam Wesson’s paper trail begins.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Castiel says as he sits behind the wheel. “Send over all the information you have.”

“Locked and loaded,” Charlie replies before ending the call.

Dropping his phone on the passenger seat, Castiel stares at the gauges on his dashboard, gears clicking and turning in his head. He has to shut Dean out for now and focus on Sam. There’s a reason Sam isn’t the center of Dean’s universe anymore, and Castiel knows that if he can crack it, more of the puzzle pieces will click into place. Benny’s reveal of Dean’s backstory hasn’t left Castiel’s head at all. The gap between Sam disappearing and Dean joining Crowley’s gang is what he needs to figure out, and if Dean won’t give him that information, then he’ll have to get it from someone else.

“Sam Winchester,” Castiel murmurs to himself as he turns the ignition.

Another player has entered the board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've finally figured out exactly where i wanna go!  
> now we are on the journey to get there.  
> i have no idea what the final word count for this story will be; i just know i don't want to rush it.  
> we will be shifting gears into more plot, less porn.  
> by less porn i mean still porn but more plot.  
> if i don't update before the holiday, i hope you have a good one!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slightly nervous*

💀💀💀

Since being dismissed from Dean’s company, Castiel has had ample time to focus. Dean doesn’t have any way to contact Castiel - he’s done a good job of keeping it a one-way street - so Castiel has no idea if or when Dean will calm down and call him back. He figures he’ll give Dean his space, which in turn gives himself space, and he’ll go back to Dean when he thinks they’re both in a better frame of mind. Kissing Dean had definitely been a spur of the moment thing, Castiel caught up in the need to bring Dean as much pleasure as possible, and while he regrets it, a tiny part of him is glad he did it. He’d been wondering if, after all this time and all the knowledge he’s gathered, Dean would still taste the same. He wasn’t disappointed. Dean was intoxicating as ever.

Which is why another kiss can’t happen again. 

Instead, Castiel has been focused on Sam Winchester - AKA Sam Wesson. With Charlie’s help they learn that he runs a law firm out of Austin as a criminal defense lawyer. Castiel thinks it’s a bit odd, Sam’s choice of profession, what with Dean being incarcerated. Finding out where Sam is only raises more questions than answers, so Castiel makes plans to fly down to Austin and see the man in person. 

“You should probably call ahead,” Charlie suggests. They’re in Castiel’s apartment, camped out on his couch with Chinese food and a Star Trek marathon. “If you just show up guns a-blazin’ I don’t think he’ll react that well.” She’s tucked into the corner of the couch, wrapped up in the fuzzy sherpa blanket Castiel keeps just for her. 

“Perhaps,” Catsiel starts fishing around his carton of food for mushrooms. “But if I do that, there’s a chance he won’t agree to see me at all.” 

“I mean, give him the option,” Charlie says with a shrug. Then, she grins, “Then go down there anyway.” 

Castiel hums, munching on a sweet and sour soaked mushroom.

“What about Chief Singer?” Charlie asks, leaning to the coffee table to pick up her soda for a deep drink. She settles back again, eyeing Castiel curiously. “What are you gonna tell him when you leave? You’ve been doing the majority of your investigation off the books.”

“I suppose I could tell him what I’ve been doing,” Castiel muses. “But he’s still upset with me for Detroit.” 

Charlie snaps her leg out to kick Castiel in the shin. “I am too, for the record. I got you that information out of the goodness of my heart, and you _killed_ someone!”

“Someone who deserved it,” Castiel says snootily.

She rolls her eyes. “What bone did you have to pick with them?” 

“It’s how they tried to kill Dean, the first time,” he says into his carton, pushing noodles around. 

Charlie’s a bit too quiet for his liking, so he looks up at her. She’s eyeing him curiously, brow softly furrowed as she chews on her lower lip. “You sure went through a lot of trouble to get payback for a convicted criminal.” 

“You would do the same for me, if I were in jail.” 

“Yeah, but that’s because we’re friends-” she cuts herself off, blinking huge eyes at Castiel. Her chopsticks are frozen halfway to her mouth, the chicken between them falling back into her container. “Oh em gee. Cas, are you friends with Dean?” 

“Friends is stretching it,” Castiel scowls. He’s surprised it took Charlie this long to figure it out. 

“Wait wait wait,” Charlie shifts to sit on her knees, putting her carton down on the coffee table so she can start crowding into Castiel’s space. “Friends don’t _kill_ their friends’ enemies. That’s, like, jilted lover stuff.” 

Castiel stays quiet.

Charlie squawks, “Oh my God you and Dean are _lovers_?!” 

“Again, that’s stretching it,” Castiel sighs.

“Cas, that’s _crazy_ ,” Charlie gawps. “When did it start? After you were visiting him in jail? Do you guys-” she drops her voice to a whisper, “- _do stuff_?” 

Setting his own food down, Castiel gently pushes Charlie back to her side of the couch. “If I tell you, you have to swear on your job you won’t tell anyone else.” He doesn’t even _want_ to tell her, expose his secret life like they’re having a gossipy slumber party; but, the benefits outweigh the negatives. If Charlie knows everything, he has a solid ally on his side. 

“My lips are sealed, dude,” Charlie swears. “All this time I’ve been wondering why you’re so obsessed with the Winchester case. So: spill!”

Sighing, Castiel settles into his own corner of the couch. “When Dean got blown up, I was in the apartment with him.” Charlie’s eyes widen. “We’d had a one night stand, and the following morning, we were getting ready to leave. That’s when the blast happened.” 

“Oh my trope,” Charlie whispers, eyes shining. “He was _the one_ , wasn’t he?”

Castiel’s nose wrinkles slightly. “We had a good night together. He was…” he trails off, looking past Charlie’s shoulder as the memories replay; Dean’s hands on his body, lips on his skin, laugh in his ear. “He was unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. I went to launch a missing person’s investigation for him, but he’d given me a false name. All my leads went cold, so I chose to forget about him. Then I found him in the dumpster, and everything followed.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I realized what a fool I’d been. Dean’s a con artist, a prostitute and a manipulator. I was just another notch in his belt. Nothing could have come from our one night together.” At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself all this time.

“So why did you start visiting him in prison?” Charlie asks softly, some of the excited light in her eyes dying. 

“We arranged a deal,” Castiel says. “Dean would get hotel-like accommodations in his cell in exchange for him giving up information on Crowley. His information is what’s helped me catch all the criminals in the past year and a half. The tips that I send to you have all come from Dean.”

“Wowzers,” Charlie exhales. She bites her bottom lip. “But… are these visits just friendly?” Her toes reach out again, this time to gently nudge Castiel’s foot. “You can tell me.”

“I assure you, you’d rather not know the details of our time together,” Castiel says.

Charlie squeals, then picks up her carton of food again. “Ok, so: you’re on this case because Dean has all the info you need. And you follow up on other leads that are other parts of Crowley’s twisted web. How have you been doing this by yourself?”

“I haven’t,” Castiel says a bit wryly, giving Charlie a soft smile. “You’ve helped quite a bit.”

“Hell yeah I have, you’ve got the best technical analyst in the FBI on your side!” Charlie grins, munching on some noodles. 

“In any case, I’ve kept Chief Singer in the dark for pretty much everything,” Castiel admits. “Some of the takedowns he approved, and he generally doesn’t care what I do as long as I file the proper paperwork. But Detroit made him legitimately angry, so I believe it’s best to lay low for a while until the heat is off, before pursuing Sam.” 

Charlie nods. “Probably a good idea, but- what _are_ you gonna tell him?”

“I can go to Austin for a weekend, and Chief Singer doesn’t have to know,” Castiel says. “No one will miss me for a weekend, as I’m not usually social during that time anyway.” 

She pouts a little, “I guess. Is it safe to go alone?”

Castiel puts his empty carton on the coffee table. “Probably not. But it is a risk I’ll have to take. I won’t tell him right away that I’m an FBI agent; he’s a lawyer, and though I don’t know him yet, any lawyer would love to get their claws in a lawsuit against an agent. Especially a defense lawyer.”

“Oh man, true that,” Charlie groans. She’s quiet for a minute, and then she adds on a more serious note, “Thanks for telling me all this, Cas. I know Robocop usually does things on his own, but I can be your eye in the sky whenever you need me.” 

Castiel offers her a small smile. “Thank you, Charlie.

She gets a wicked gleam in her eye, “So, are your visits of the _conjugal_ nature?” 

Castiel turns away from her, grabbing the Playstation controller to start looking for a new show to watch. “Ya nye gavaryú pa anglíjski.”

Charlie throws half an eggroll at him.

💀💀💀

Sam Winchester/Wesson is a criminal defense lawyer in Austin, Texas. He has his own firm, makes an obscene amount of money for his age (twenty-three), and has a partner named Ruby Cortese. All articles and descriptions of Sam in the court tout his unshakeable nature, his iron will, and his genius-level brain. He’s formidable and talented and why he’s in Austin, of all places, seems to be a mystery to anyone and everyone. Since Sam Wesson didn’t exist until four years ago, it’s hard to dig up dirt on him.

Ruby Cortese, however, has been Ruby Cortese since birth.

Slapped with plenty of misdemeanors as a minor, Ruby had been in and out of juvenile detention centers in Los Angeles until she was sixteen, when part of her court-mandated community service landed her in a lawyer’s office. Ready to turn a new leaf, Ruby dropped the drugs and bad habits to put herself through law school, graduating successfully and moving on to work in a few different firms. Now, at thirty-five years old, she is partner at _Wesson Law_.

Castiel finds it odd that someone at her age, with that much experience, is partner at a rookie’s firm. He won’t know more until he meets them in person, but he’s already suspicious of them. Benny had made it sound like Sam was a good boy, like Dean did everything he could to protect him… but getting tangled up with a woman like Ruby is anything but safe. Castiel can’t be sure, but a part of him wonders if Dean also wouldn’t approve of their partnership.

The flight to Austin is only mildly annoying because Castiel made a last minute booking and got stuck in a middle seat. He’s packed just a carry-on and told the office he’d be out of service for the weekend, so hopefully he won’t be bothered. He rents a car at ABIA and follows his phone into the heart of the city, forgoing booking a hotel just yet. _Wesson Law_ is a standalone building, which is miraculous in this area, with a neat parking lot and hedges trimmed to perfection. Castiel parks his car, makes sure his shoulder holster is concealed by buttoning up his suit jacket, then makes his way into the building. 

A curvy brunette woman greets him from the front desk, a brow arching and a slick smile curving over her features. “Welcome to _Wesson Law_. I’m Meg. How can I help you, handsome?” 

“I’m hoping to meet Sam Wesson,” Castiel says. This woman gives him the heebie jeebies, her entire persona oozing bad news. “Is there any chance he’s in today?”

“He’s in, but he’s booked all day. I, however, am open for business,” she purrs. 

“I’ll wait,” Castiel replies curtly.

Meg rolls her eyes a little, clearly knowing she’s being shot down. Her demeanor changes completely, now, bored indifference as she clicks around on the computer in front of her. “What’s your name?” 

“Castiel.” 

The smirk filters over her lips again, eyes flicking up towards his with renewed, but subtle interest. “Well, Clarence, it’ll be an hour until his lunch. I’ll ask if he’s willing to have a word with you.”

“Please,” Castiel says with a polite nod. He moves to sit in one of the cushy lobby chairs, looking around. This place is like every other law firm he’s been in, though perhaps a little more… green. Lots of plants - real, he notes, when he reaches out to a nearby fern to finger its leaves - and sunlight. He doesn’t pull out his phone, he doesn’t grab a magazine; he just waits patiently, quietly, ignoring the way Meg keeps glancing over at him. When the hour is up a harried man exits the door on the far side of the room, and ten minutes later, a tall, handsome man wearing jogging pants, a tank top, and an armband on a well-defined bicep for his phone exits.

Sam Wesson.

He sees Castiel sitting patiently, blinks in mild surprise, then walks over to the desk. “Who’s this, Meg?” 

“Doesn’t have an appointment,” Meg replies, donning a bored tone of voice. “Says his name is Castiel.” 

Sam’s jaw ticks slightly as he glances over towards where Castiel is sitting. It’s the most tiny of expressions, and if Castiel weren't so trained in reading Dean, he would have missed it. Sam puts a handsome smile on his face and walks over towards Castiel, holding out his hand. “Hello, sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I understand that you’re booked all day,” Castiel says, standing up to shake Sam’s hand. His grip is tight, but not overly so. “I’m more than happy to wait until you have no more clients.” 

“I can eat lunch at my desk,” Sam says, the warmth coming off of him just a tad unnatural, like he’s projecting to hide his true reaction. “C’mon, let’s talk.” 

Castiel follows Sam through the door, ignoring the burning sensation of Meg staring at his ass as he passes. Sam leads him down a hallway to an office in the back, which has big, bright windows, decorated lavishly in hunter green and cool beige. 

“Have a seat,” Sam directs. He looks a little silly, sitting at his big furnished desk while wearing workout clothes. He looks as young as he actually is.

If Castiel didn’t know what to look for, he’d almost be charmed by the man. 

“Castiel, huh?” Sam leans back in his chair a little. “Pretty unique name.” He doesn’t pull out any food from the mini fridge in the corner of the room.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Can’t be many Castiel’s in the country.”

“I would assume so.” 

“So then, perhaps, _I_ would assume that you’re the Castiel Novak that’s been visiting my brother in prison since the day he got canned.” 

Chills run down Castiel’s spine. He grips his knees, keeping his shoulders straight, suddenly on full alert. As far as he knew, Sam and Dean weren’t communicating. He’s never seen Sam’s name on the guest roster. “I am in contact with Dean, yes.”

Sam puts an elbow on the arm of his chair, chin in hand, regarding Castiel with a slight frown. “You blew up those guys in Detroit?” 

Castiel scowls. “Why do you know that?” 

Chuckling, Sam leans forward to put his forearms on his desk. “Do you think you’re the only one keeping tabs on Crowley’s gang?” He contemplates Castiel quietly. He looks so much like Dean yet so different; Sam’s hair is long, dark, his jaw and cheeks angular, his body broad and lean. Their eyes, though. Their eyes hold universes and carry the weight of the world. “Dean doesn’t know you’re here.”

“He does not,” Castiel acknowledges. “Depending on how this goes, he doesn’t have to know.”

“What are you looking to gain?” Sam asks, curious. 

“Anything you’d be willing to give,” Castiel admits. “I’ve been doing my own investigation into Crowley and his… miscreants. Dean was one on that list, and my data of him is incomplete.”

“He’d tell if you asked,” Sam says. 

Castiel suddenly notices the pattern of ‘ask and we’ll tell’. Dean’s said it, even Ash said it, and now Sam is saying it. It really can’t be that easy to get information. Just say please, with a cherry on top, and be given the secrets to the wildest gang on this side of the ocean? “Dean has a propensity to not tell the whole truth. He likes to lie by omission, and I don’t have time to play his games.”

“How are you so sure you’re not playing one right now?”

That stops Castiel cold. He stares at Sam in mild surprise, the simple question turning everything on edge. In all that Castiel has done these past years, he’s considered himself ahead of the game, a key player, someone in the know and not to be trifled with. He plays by his own rules, does his own thing, and operates for one person only: himself. 

But… is that how things are? Castiel goes to Dean almost weekly for their deal. He’s always in Dean’s orbit, or thinking about Dean, or working towards a way to come at Dean when they reunite. In truth, Dean occupies Castiel’s thoughts and rationale for the better part of any given day. He hadn’t noticed it until this moment - or, perhaps he chose to overlook it. Here, now, facing Sam Winchester, Castiel feels the Earth shift under his feet.

“Between the time Dean sent you off and joined Crowley’s gang: what was he doing?”

“Again,” Sam is casual as can be as he stands, rounding his desk so he can lean against it, folding his arms loosely over his chest, “why don’t you ask him?”

“I didn’t come all this way for you to deflect my questions,” Castiel says stiffly.

“And no one asked you to come here,” Sam says simply. His voice is carefree, but his eyes are sharp. “Whatever information you’re looking for, you need to get it from Dean.” 

Castiel changes tactics. “How is it that you’re a criminal defense lawyer and you allow your brother to sit in prison?” He drums his fingers idly against his knee. “You could reduce his sentence, perhaps get him off on probation. It would be easy to come up with a coercion defense story. Dean did what he had to do to survive and protect you.”

“My business is not your business,” Sam says coolly.

“Your business is my business when you have every opportunity to save your brother and instead choose to let an FBI agent cut deals and fight for his life.”

Sam’s suddenly on Castiel, grabbing him by his lapels and hauling him up out of his seat. “You are in _no position_ to criticize my relationship with Dean.”

Unfazed, Castiel narrows his eyes, pulse starting to quicken. “Considering out of the two people in this room I am the only one who actually _has_ a relationship with him, perhaps I am in a position to criticize.”

“You think you’re special ‘cause he wets your dick on Wednesdays?” Sam’s angry, but he’s composed, nary a hair out of place, even though there’s a flush on his cheeks and their noses are almost touching. “You’re not. Dean will use you up and toss you like the rest.”

“Then you’re saying Dean hasn’t used me up yet? Because he and I have known each other for almost five years.” Sam’s eye twitches. Jackpot. Castiel’s lips curl in a smirk. “You didn’t know?” 

“You’re just a pawn,” Sam says, a barely-there tremble in his voice. He might not believe his own words. His knuckles are white on Castiel’s lapel, his strength having Castiel’s toes barely on the floor. 

Castiel doesn’t miss the reference. So many nods to an intricate game of chess; players on the board, players off the board. He’s well aware of the fact that there are moving pieces that he’s not privy to. Dean’s done a good job of keeping information from him without it costing too much. “And what are you, Sam Wesson? What are you in the grand scheme of things?” 

Sam drops Castiel and throws a punch so quick, it catches the agent off-guard. His knuckles connect to his jaw with a _crack!_ , Castiel’s head whipping to the side. It knocks him off balance for just a moment before he’s winding an arm around Sam’s narrow waist, slipping his foot between the taller man’s legs in a sweeping motion to use the momentum of his giant body against him and lay him out on the floor. They tussel, throwing and deflecting punches; Sam uses his size to get Castiel on his back, straddling his waist, a knife from God-knows-where in his hand and aiming straight to Castiel’s throat. Castiel lifts his arm to block, the base of the blade slicing through his suit jacket and his button-up neatly, the bulk of his forearm blocking the hilt of the blade and preventing it from making contact with his throat. Frozen in a war of strength, Sam leans his body weight down to try and drive the knife closer, Castiel’s body shaking with the strain. Sam had caught him off-guard, that’s true, but he’s also quick and strong, a foe that Castiel hadn’t expected to square off against.

They’re stuck in a stalemate when the door to Sam’s office opens. Castiel sees red bottom high heels out of the corner of his eye and skinny ankles, signaling a woman’s arrival; not Meg, because Castiel had noted that she’d been wearing some beastly leather boots. Another woman in the firm could only be…

“I’m a little busy right now, Ruby,” Sam says, voice strained. Some sweat drips off his brow and drops on Castiel’s cheek.

“I don’t care,” Ruby replies, her voice smooth as sin and totally unbothered by the sight she walked in on. “I’ve got the files for the Jones case and you said you were going to look over them today.” 

“Put them on my desk,” Sam says. His concentration is wavering, though, which helps Castiel literally get a leg up and flip them over. Castiel might be smaller than Sam, but his legs are most definitely stronger, and he uses them to keep Sam pinned to the ground as he snatches the knife out of his hand and tosses it out of reach. Flushing scarlet, Sam tries to scrabble and get Castiel’s lapel again; Castiel slaps his hands away and then pins them above his head, causing Sam to nearly snarl. “You don’t mean anything to him.”

“If I didn’t mean anything to him, you wouldn’t be having such a strong reaction,” Castiel points out reasonably, only slightly out of breath.

“Could you two put your dicks away for five minutes?” Ruby asks boredly. She walks over to Sam’s desk, putting the files down. She’s a small woman, no more than five feet tall, petite and sensual-looking with dark hair and eyes. She folds her arms over her chest, staring pointedly at Sam. “Leave your brother’s boyfriend alone.” 

Sam finally goes lax. Castiel waits a moment to make sure he won’t be taken down again, before carefully allowing himself up. Sam looks irritated and young; Castiel holds a hand out to him to help him up, but it gets knocked away as Sam easily stands up on long legs and pushes his hair out of his face. Castiel gives him a wide berth, straightening out his jacket and reaching a hand up to smooth his hair down. Sam returns to his seat behind the desk, letting out a breath and pushing the files to the side as he folds his hands atop the leather inlay on the surface of his desk.

“Thanks, Ruby. I’ll look at these after my lunch is up.”

“Oh, this is your lunch?” Ruby feigns a look of surprise, sarcasm dripping through her voice. “I thought this was a public claiming of your idiot brother. Fighting for his honor, and all that.”

“I’ve just learned that Agent Novak has that covered,” Sam says, his eyes narrowing as they watch Castiel resume his seat in the plush leather client chair.

Ruby pulls a handkerchief out of the pocket of her blazer, holding it out towards Castiel. She gestures towards his left arm; he lifts it up, finally spotting the wound he couldn’t feel. Blood has soaked his sleeve and is currently threatening to drip onto Sam’s tasteful carpet. Castiel takes the cloth from her with a curt nod, mopping up the mess before starting to wrap it around his forearm. He’ll take a closer look at the wound when he gets back to the hotel.

“Look at the files,” Ruby says, sending Sam a meaningful glance. Surprisingly, he manages to look a little cowed. She sends Castiel a smile, though it does nothing to make him feel warm inside. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Novak. I look forward to seeing you around.” She and her smart pencil skirt suit leave Sam’s office, closing the door behind her quietly.

Silence settles over the men like a suffocating blanket. 

“I did not come here to fight,” Castiel says, ignoring the snort that leaves Sam’s nose. “Dean is… difficult to figure out, even if he _says_ he’s being honest with me. I’m well aware that I’m fraternizing with the enemy. My career is at risk every time I even _think_ about him. You’re in the same position- I know you contact him secretly, somehow. Do you even know the whole truth about your brother?”

Sam sizes Castiel up. One of his eyes is black, his lip is split; he’s probably a mirror image of Castiel at this point. Sighing, Sam sits back in his chair and reaches up to rub his fingers over his temples. “No, I don’t know his whole story. The gap you’re looking to fill, I don’t have the information for. He dumped me the second I turned eighteen, and I didn’t even know he was still alive ‘til I saw him on the news. I contacted him once, he told me never to write him again, and that’s that.”

“But you continued to contact him,” Castiel says. “How?”

“Benny,” Sam says. “I call his cell phone when he’s on guard and Dean talks to me through the cell door, through Benny. Our conversations are only about three minutes, and most of what he says to me is in a code I have to decipher. So Benny doesn’t know what we’re talking about.” 

Castiel frowns. “What are you discussing that’s so important you require a code language?” 

“What isn’t important when it comes to Dean?” Sam asks tiredly. “He’s pulling so many strings, spider webs look like kindergarten drawings.” 

“Dean’s pulling strings?” Castiel repeats, arching both eyebrows. “How? And with whom?” 

Leaning forward in his seat, Sam folds his forearms on the desk and sends Castiel the first sympathetic look he’s ever received from a Winchester. It stands his hair on end and makes his jaw clench. “Novak, you’re in over your head. I know you’ve got romantic feelings for Dean or whatever, but you need to get out before you get in too deep. If you think your job is at stake now, what do you think it’ll be like in a year? Two? _You’re_ the one taking out Crowley’s gang. And let me tell you, just because you take out one operation doesn’t mean there aren’t more waiting in the wings. If and when Crowley gets offed, haven’t you thought about who might be waiting to take his place?” 

Castiel says nothing, absorbing the words.

“You think you’re dishing out justice, every time you arrest or kill someone affiliated with Crowley. But what if you were helping a _different_ enemy? The blood on your hands isn’t justified, Novak. Not then, not now, not ever.” 

Against his will, Castiel’s heart rate starts to quicken in his chest again, pulse jumping against his throat. His tongue feels fat, his mouth dry. 

“Ever since the dawn of time, there have been criminals, evildoers. They’ll continue to exist until humanity blasts itself out of existence entirely. For every criminal you take out, five more are picking up their slack.” Sam looks over Castiel with a critical eye. “You’re smart, Novak. And talented, too. Your position in the bureau didn’t come by luck. Y’know, I’d even say you’re a genius. But something’s… _off_ , about you, and that’s what draws Dean in. You’re toeing a fine line every time you see him.”

This isn’t the first time someone has hinted about Castiel’s mental stability, or lack thereof. Chief Singer has said the words “glad the sociopath is on our side”, other agents have even made less than kind remarks about how Castiel has the emotional capacity of a wood plank. Even Charlie notes that Castiel processes and reacts to information differently than the average human. But Castiel has always passed his psych evals… perhaps with a bit of acting and persuasion, but he’s never been told he’s unfit to work. 

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” Sam continues, “that you are the way you are. But if you continue to see Dean you’re gonna cross the line to the wrong side of justice and there won’t be any coming back from it. So I ask you, Agent Novak: what are you willing to sacrifice, what are you willing to _do_ for Dean?” 

_Anything_ , is on the tip of Castiel’s tongue. He bites it back so hard he tastes copper. Standing up, Castiel smoothes his rumpled suit fruitlessly, nodding his head towards Sam. “Thank you for your insight, Sam.” 

Sam’s chair creaks when he leans back. He stands again, walking towards Castiel, this time without any aggression or challenge in his movements. He stares Castiel down, thoughtfully, before holding out his hand towards him. Castiel stares at his hand in surprise, eyes darting from his broad palm up to his pretty hazel eyes. Sam isn’t smiling, but his eyes seem a fraction softer. “Dean is lucky to have you. And, for the record: Dean’s in prison because that’s where he wants to be.” His voice softens, “You think I haven’t offered to get him out?” 

Castiel reaches out to take Sam’s hand, holding it instead of shaking it. “What do you two talk about?” 

“The End,” Sam says simply. 

It’s all Castiel needs.

💀💀💀

Dean’s lying on his bed reading a book when Castiel is let into his cell. It’s warm outside and inside today, Dean wearing only a pair of scrub pants, his torso and feet bare. He looks up when Castiel enters, flashing him a small smile as he closes his book and sits up, dutifully giving Castiel his attention. They haven’t seen each other in three months, now; not since Dean told Castiel to leave.

Castiel has kept himself occupied by taking on regular bureau cases - nothing related to Crowley. After his visit with Sam he’d decided to pull back, pump the brakes on everything Crowley, going back to dealing with run of the mill serial killers and kidnappers. It’s given him a chance to clear his head, to think about things other than Dean, leaving him feeling more refreshed and focused than ever. 

Now, inside Dean’s cell, he holds onto the tenuous walls he’s erected in his mind. He pulls out the desk chair and has a seat, noting the way Dean’s eyes flash slightly in disappointment. The emotion is covered up with false bravado immediately.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” Dean says, shifting so his feet rest on the plush rug on the floor. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to,” Castiel replies honestly. 

Dean’s gaze drops slightly. “I know I overreacted. This,” he gestures between them, “is a business transaction, no matter how much I want-” he cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face and letting out a mirthless chuckle. “Anyway, of course I wanted you to come back.”

Castiel watches Dean’s expressions and body language to try and detect dishonesty, to try and find even an ounce of deception. But all Castiel has learned in the past few years and in their time apart is that Dean really, truly _does_ care for him, and wants to spend time with him. This tends to baffle Castiel, because he’s pretty sure at this point that Dean, likely, lured him back to his apartment for that one night stand. For what purpose, he’s still unclear on, but he’s at least sure of this fact.

Shifting to learn forward and rest his elbows on his knees, Castiel regards Dean quietly. “I saw your brother.”

Dean’s entire body language closes off, his brow furrowing slightly as he unintentionally goes on the defensive. “What?” 

“You’ve never mentioned him, even though I’m sure you knew that I was aware he exists,” Castiel says coolly. 

“No reason to talk about him,” Dean replies a bit testily. He shifts to scoot back on his bed until he can lean against the wall. He adjusts the blankets so they cover his bare feet. 

“And why is that?”

“‘Cause he didn’t need to be involved in my bullshit,” Dean says, glaring at his knees. “Bet Benny told you all about my ‘troubled youth’.” He snorts, then lets out a blustery sigh. “Sam’s always been a good kid. Wanted to be a lawyer since he was, like, ten or some shit. By then I already knew I was a screwup so I did my best to keep him outta my shit. Did what I could to support him, an’ when he was eighteen and got accepted to the school he wanted to attend, I sent him on his way.” 

Castiel does his best to keep his temper under control. “I find it fascinating, Dean, that you can tell me the truth and still hide so much.” 

“This ain’t a chick flick,” Dean snaps, finally looking up at Castiel. “I ain’t gonna unload all my girly secrets on you and hope you hug me and tell me it’s gonna be ok, ‘cause it’s _not_ , no matter how things go.” 

“How do you propose I’m going to help you at all if I don’t know everything?” Castiel presses.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “You _been_ helping me ‘cause it benefits _you_ , too.” 

“Does it?” Castiel asks with a humorless laugh. “Because I believe I’ve just figured out that I’m slowly digging my own grave every time I help you out.” 

“What, did Sam tell you that?” Dean huffs with his own laugh. “Kid’s way too emotionally invested in crap he don’t know shit about.”

“On the contrary, Dean,” Castiel keeps his voice smooth, “I found Sam _very_ mature and _greatly_ intelligent. Perhaps _because_ he is ‘emotionally invested in crap’,” he says with finger quotes.

“That why he gave you a black eye?” Dean snips, folding his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging distractedly. 

“Sam thought I wasn’t committed to you,” Castiel says, anger seeping into his voice. “He thought that _I_ wasn’t invested in _you_.”

Dean quiets, some of his defensive posture bleeding out. “... Are you?” 

“Against my better judgment, I find myself in a committed relationship with you,” Castiel says dryly, “and I’m absolutely positive it’s going to either kill me or destroy me in the end.” 

The tiniest of smiles quirks the corner of Dean’s lips. “A committed relationship, huh?” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I will not say it again.” 

“You don’t wanna pour romantic niceties over me and tell me how much you love me?” 

“You’re pushing it.” 

Dean gets off of the bed, crossing the small distance to Castiel to sit on his lap. Castiel accepts his weight easily, familiarly, leaning back in the chair and resting his hands naturally on Dean’s thighs as Dean drapes his arms over his shoulders. This is it, the weight and reality of Dean, having him so close Castiel can smell him, taste him if he wants, look into his pretty green eyes and fall into them. Every time they’re together Castiel feels him drifting further and further away from his original goal… which was… which… was…

“Do you love me?” Dean murmurs, his voice seductive and low, the fingers of one of his hands tangling into Castiel’s thick hair, carding through it. He presses forward, their foreheads touching as they stare into each other’s eyes. Dean’s ginger lashes are lowered, peeks of green and gold bursting through them like sunlight through tree branches. 

Castiel doesn’t reply. He doesn’t trust himself to. His hands sliding up Dean’s thighs to his waist, thumbs pressing into his oblique muscles.

“I love you,” Dean says in that same tone of voice. Castiel can’t sense a lie, can’t feel anything but the truth, the words washing over him. “I need you.” Dean’s body rolls a little, the heat between them ramping up due to their closeness and the heaviness of Dean’s words and the tone he speaks them in. “Do you need me?”

There’s the out Castiel needs. He can’t, won’t say he loves Dean, because even he isn’t sure of it. But this… this, he can do. “I need you.” His voice comes out more wrecked than he anticipated his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Dean leans forward, licking his lips for him. Castiel’s tongue comes out again, pressing against Dean’s, their muscles slip-sliding together, nothing at all like a kiss as they just _taste_. Both of Dean’s hands tangle in Castiel’s hair now, Castiel’s hands sliding down to his ass to help him rock against him. They pant against each other, Dean letting out a moan when Castiel dips a hand past his waistband to slide a finger down Dean’s crack, just barely grazing the furled muscle of his hole. 

“Please,” Dean breathes against Castiel’s mouth, still not kissing him. For a moment Castiel thinks he’s begging for him, as he was wont to do, but Dean surprises him with his next words: “Please don’t leave me for that long ever again.”

Castiel’s heart squeezes uncomfortably in his chest. His other hand moves up to Dean’s jaw, cupping it, his thumb pulling Dean’s lower lip down before slipping into his mouth, Dean automatically sucking it into the wet vacuum of his mouth. Castiel searches Dean’s beautiful eyes, seeing a sliver of vulnerability that normally is covered up by bravado and shitty jokes. It’s this mixed with that strange feeling in his chest that has Castiel promising, “I won’t.” 

Dean kisses him like a man starved. Castiel meets him in intensity and emotion, surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks. He’s drowning in Dean, drowning in how he makes him feel, drowning in his tears, drowning in the feel of him rocking against Castiel. They’re both hard in their pants, Dean’s scrubs doing nothing to hide his modestly. Castiel’s finger dips further to press dry against Dean’s taint, applying a bit of pressure to wiggle just the tip in before pulling back out again. Dean chases the sensation, hips rolling sinuously, nothing jerky in his movements. Castiel pulls his hands free and braces his hands under Dean’s thighs, the other man anticipating the motion as he wraps his arms tightly around Castiel’s neck.

Standing up, Castiel makes the short journey to Dean’s bed. He spreads him out, undresses him, and breaks the kiss to start worshiping Dean’s body with his mouth. It’s slow, an echo of the night they shared all those years ago. Castiel undresses himself as he sucks marks and bruises into Dean’s skin, and when they’re both fully naked Castiel lies out atop Dean, pressing every inch of their heated skin together, hard cocks lined up as Castiel presses his weight down on them. Their moans mix, Castiel’s hand reaching down to grip both their erections, the slide too dry and with enough friction to start a fire. High on the emotions and the brief confrontation neither of them last, their cum spilling out over Castiel’s hand and Dean’s pelvis. Castiel’s mouth devours Dean’s as his hand moves to rub their release into Dean’s skin, fingers sliding through his pubic hair and matting it up. Suddenly boneless, Castiel shifts to lie down next to Dean, fingers still possessively curled into Dean’s pubes, burying his nose in Dean’s sandy blond hair as he closes his eyes and tries to regain his breath. 

They’re both quiet, but it’s comfortable. Dean eventually disentangles Castiel’s cum-covered hand to lace their fingers together, squishing the mess between their palms and lifting them to rest over his breastbone. Their breathing regulates, their temperatures lower, and Castiel finally finds the words that he’s been too scared to say. 

“Are you Crowley?” 

Dean exhales slowly. Their eyes are closed as they relax, neither of their heartbeats picking up. 

“No,” Dean finally says. “But I’m the one who killed him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ya nye gavaryú pa anglíjski.” - "I don't speak English." (Cas loves a good cop out)  
> Spot the nod to canon!  
> ...  
> *still slightly nervous*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter you've all been waiting for.  
> First few paragraphs are off-screen descriptions of adolescent Dean "servicing" men, you can skip down to the asterisks if that squicks you. Just know that John started "selling" Dean when he was 10.  
> We get an exploration of Dean and Sam's (nontoxic) codependent relationship. Nothing 'cesty, they were just all the other had for so long.

😈😈😈

When Dean was ten years old, he knew he was destined for great things. His daddy told him so. Dean was pretty, he was rascally, and he made his dad proud every single day. Dad always told him he should have been born a girl, though even as a boy he was still born to suck cock and gape his boypussy. If anything dad telling Dean he should have been a girl encouraged Dean to work harder, do better, impress his dad and anyone else that came their way.

Dean looked and felt best wearing lingerie. He liked the way the silk slid over his skin, how the lace sometimes scratched at his balls but made them tingle pleasantly. He especially liked the attention of the men holding him down and fucking him from both ends, and definitely loved the hefty sum of cash they would leave for him to collect. 

Dean knew he was different from the other kids. But he also knew he was better than all of them. He did alright in school, grades average and made sure he wasn’t any sort of remarkable. Dad always told him to keep his head down, blend in and do what he could to pass off as a normal kid. So he did, even though he would look at the boys wearing jerseys longingly, wondering if his dad would ever let him play sports. Baseball looked especially fun. 

***

At fourteen, Dean was given more responsibility. He fucked men less often, but his priorities shifted to taking care of Sammy, first and foremost. The kid was smart as hell, surprising and impressing Dean every time he brought home perfect grades; but the kid was also vulnerable, sneaking into Dean’s bed at night sometimes to curl around him like an octopus, burying his face in Dean’s chest and hiding his sniffles. He and dad never got along, and whenever they argued it never affected dad but Sammy was left with a cloud over his head for days. Dad didn’t give Sammy the same attention he gave Dean, but Dean was adamant that he didn’t. 

Someone in the family had to grow up normal. Why not his brainiac little brother?

Dean loved Sammy fiercely. He’d do anything for that kid… and so, he did. When they were strapped for cash and Sammy started complaining about Dean’s inventive ways to serve mac n’ cheese, Dean would prowl the streets, waiting for someone desperate enough to pull him into their car. If he was unlucky, he’d turn his sights on gas station cash registers and cars left unlocked. As with everything in his life, Dean got proficient at these tasks, his dad’s voice in the back of his head telling him to turn it into a profit. 

At fifteen, Dean got arrested for the first time for stealing peanut butter off the shelf in a gas station. Fucking stupid was what it was, a dumb mistake that Dean would beat himself up over for years to come. Sammy was left alone as Dean sat in jail overnight, not even bothering with his one phone call. Who knew where John was. Besides, the cop he’d passed on the way in paid Dean twenty bucks for a blowjob last week, and when Dean winked salaciously at him and the cop had blushed furiously, Dean knew he wouldn’t be in the holding cell for long.

When he’d gotten home and Sam had barreled into him, snot-nosed and puffy-cheeked, Dean vowed to never get caught again. He’d have to get creative. He had to protect Sam.

At sixteen, John had come home from a bender filled with rage. Dean took the brunt of the blows but when Sam tried to come between them, the back of John’s hand cracked across Sam’s cheek. Silence settled eerily in the ramshackle house, not even the pipes leaking in the wake of the shocking act. 

Dean shot forward, grabbing John by the lapel of his ratty leather coat, hauling him so close their foreheads almost collided. “How,” he growled, watching John’s pupils shrink in fear, a sweat breaking out on his greasy brow; “fucking,” some spit lands on John’s lips; “ _dare you_.” 

John didn’t fight back. Dean wound up for a punch and knocked the man flat on his ass. Dean’s body still hadn’t fully developed, but he was strong from street fights and fending off men who refused to pay after he serviced them. John looked dazed. Dean reached to the kitchen counter, picking up the knife he’d been using to chop onions for tonight’s dinner. John’s eyes focused on the blade, new fear shining in them as he started to scramble back, his shoulders hitting the wall. 

“Dean-” 

Static buzzed in Dean’s brain, blocking any noise from entering his ears. He advanced on John, dropping to his knees between the man’s spread legs. Pressing the tip of the knife to John’s chest Dean leaned forward, brushing their cheeks together almost intimately before whispering in the man’s ear. 

“Daddy…”

John twitched involuntarily. 

“Bye bye.” 

Using the weight of his body and the strength of his arm, Dean sank the blade into John’s chest. The man wheezed and coughed in pain, hands coming up to try and push Dean away; Dean pulled back slightly, yanked the blade out, and then slit the man’s throat. No sense in dragging it out, he thought. As much as he’d like to stab John until he was unrecognizable, he couldn’t make too much of a mess in the kitchen. He’ll have to clean up, after all. 

Once John stopped gurgling, Dean stood up. The static in his brain cleared, noise rushing back in. He could hear sobbing… crying… who was that? Turning around, he saw Sam pressing himself up against the other wall, a hand over his mouth to stifle his noises. Feeling protective instincts wash over him Dean took a few steps over to his brother, wrapping him up in his arms. Sam was warm where their bodies touched, but that’s because the blood on Dean’s arms and chest was already cooling. 

Bloody fingers tangled up in Sam’s long hair, soothing and gentle and rhythmic. Sam clutched at the back of Dean’s shirt, his face buried in his big brother’s chest. Dean whispered nonsensical things to get him to calm, and when Sam finally stopped sniffing, Dean’s bloody palms cupped under the boy’s jaw, tilting his head up so their eyes could meet. 

“Y’know I love you, right?” Dean asked, running a crimson thumb under Sam’s eye to collect the fat tear ready to drop. The bloody smear on Sam’s skin looks out of place and right at home all at once.

Sam nodded, lifting his hands to grasp at Dean’s wrists. He was a head shorter than Dean, lanky in a way that said he’ll be tall and broad one day when he’s fully grown. His eyes closed as Dean leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“C’mon,” Dean said, pulling away. “We gotta clean this up.” 

At eighteen, Dean was granted custody of Sam. The remains of their father were tragically found in the dumping grounds of a newly-arrested serial killer, and oh, woe for the boys, as the court looked at Dean - working a respectable mechanic job; and Sam - in advanced classes at school and ready to graduate early with honors and go to the university of his choice. 

After that, Dean kept his head down. He didn’t hook, he didn’t steal, he stayed on the right side of the law. He helped Sam prepare for university life, and when Sam was sixteen, Dean helped him pack his bags to go across the country. Sam, the big baby, got all misty-eyed, and Dean granted him a long hug, resisting the urge to kiss his sweet baby brother’s forehead while in the hustle and bustle of the airport, luggage at Sam’s feet. 

“This is for the best,” Dean said, his hands on either side of Sam’s neck to keep him grounded and focused. He dipped his chin down towards the freshly printed I.D. in Sam’s hand along with his plane ticket. “Outta the two of us, you can make it, Sammy.” 

“Wish you’d give yourself better credit,” Sam said wetly. “You can do anything, Dean. I know it.” 

“Maybe I can,” Dean conceded with a shrug, fingers squeezing Sam’s neck comfortingly. “But I know you’ll be _good_. And one day, I’m gonna need _you_ , Sammy. You gonna be there for me when I need you most?” 

Sam almost looked hurt at Dean’s question. “Don’t be an idiot, Dean. I’d do anything for you. Just like you’ve done for me all these years.” 

Ducking to hide his smile, Dean leaned in to sweep a gentle kiss to Sam’s cheek before shoving him away playfully. Sam was almost as tall as him, now. “Get lost, Samantha.”

“Jerk,” Sam wrinkled his nose, arranging his luggage so he could start pulling it along with him towards the gate. 

“Bitch,” Dean replied fondly, shoving his hands into his jacket.

The lady at the entrance to the gate took Sam’s I.D. and ticket, friendly as a customer service employee should be. “Going to California, Mr. Wesson?” 

Sam glanced over his shoulder to catch Dean’s eyes one last time. When he turned around and replied, “Yes, thank you.”, Dean knew it would be the last he saw of his brother.

Maybe forever.

😈😈😈

“Tell me how you heard of my organization.”

Sitting in a rather elegant office inside a mansion that Dean would love to explore and possibly gather a few souvenirs from, he made sure his posture was straight and his jaw was set. At twenty, without Sam, Dean knew exactly what he wanted to do. It had been nine years since old John groomed him, and he still knew he was destined for great things. Until this moment he hadn’t been able to branch out the way he wanted to. Hearing of Crowley’s gang had been a complete accident; two idiot guys had been bitching about grunt work in an alley, where Dean absolutely knew they were dumping body parts wrapped in garbage bags into a dumpster. He’d slunk around and followed them to a run down alley with an equally run down door, which was locked when he tried to jimmy the handle. 

Dean knew just from the look of the guys that they were gangsters of some sort. Bad dudes with a bad rap that got into all sorts of bad things. Bad things that Dean wanted to get into, also. Bad things that probably _paid_.

The door suddenly swung open, Dean nearly falling on his face. A greasy, skinny man sneered down his nose at him, then gestured for him to come in. Which was what led him to be here, across town, sitting on the other side of an opulent desk in front of a man who called himself Crowley.

To answer the man’s question, Dean sent a significant look towards the other man in the room, Alastair. Crowley looked over at him, rolled his eyes, and then shouted, “Get the _hell_ out, you blubbering idiot!”

Alastair glided out of the office, though not without sending Dean an unimpressed look. Alone with Crowley, Dean picked idly at the frayed hole in the knee of his jeans while the man composed himself. 

“Scotch?” Crowley asked, gesturing to a decanter and a set of glasses on his desk.

Dean shook his head. 

“Either you’re a man of few words, or you’re nervous,” Crowley observed, pouring himself a glass. 

“I’m here for a job,” Dean said a bit gruffly. “If y’ain’t gonna interview me, I ain’t gonna speak.” 

Crowley let out a little laugh at that. “A bit of sass in you, boy. I like that.” He didn’t pick up his glass for a drink, instead leaning forward to get a better look at Dean. “Tell me what you can bring to my… business.”

“Party favors,” Dean said. “I’ve got a lotta… entertaining experience.”

“You think I need an escort?” Crowley asked with an arched brow.

“S’not my only talent,” Dean licked his lips, adjusting in his seat. “I been into a lotta shit, only ever got caught once and got off with a warning ‘cause the cop in the holding cell paid me for a blowjob a few days earlier.”

“Is that so.” Both of Crowley’s brows arched. “Cops in your pocket?”

“Look, I dunno how I can prove to you what I’ve done and what I’m capable of, but I know that your guys are fuckin’ idiots,” Dean said. “This place ain’t that exclusive.”

“Right,” Crowley said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “That issue will be dealt with directly.”

“Ya don’t gotta pay me that much,” Dean continued. “I got a day job as a mechanic makin’ decent money.”

“If you don’t want money,” Crowley’s voice turned interested, “then why join a criminal organization that pays its employees handsomely?” 

The smallest of smirks curled on Dean’s lips. “Because I like bein’ a criminal, boss.”

😈😈😈

At twenty-two, Dean had set up weekly payphone calls with Sam. Kid was climbing the ranks in school, already predicted to pass the bar with flying colors and getting offers from firms all over the country to get him to join them. Dean was proud every single day of his baby brother, and it was that pride that kept him chugging along.

Being a part of Crowley’s gang was a little asinine. Crowley was a shitty, temperamental boss, more interested in numbers and money than actually causing any mayhem, which was pretty disappointing, in Dean’s book. But Dean had better cover under his protection, got fat tips from the men and women he entertained on the weekends, and even if he thought Crowley was possibly the biggest idiot in the world, he suffered through the bullshit. 

Some days, Dean thought he’d be a better boss than Crowley.

He never uttered those words out loud.

Instead, they stewed in his brain. 

Every time he got fucked raw without prep and had to nurse his asshole back into shape, he thought it. 

Every time he got tested for STD’s, he thought it. 

Every time he pulled the trigger on a mark that probably didn’t deserve it, but had likely just gotten on Crowley’s bad side, he thought it. 

Every time he talked to Sammy on the phone, he thought it. 

Every time he redeemed a favor from a cop, he thought it.

He thought a lot about it. 

Even Crowley used Dean for favors sometimes. Crowley was a lousy lay. Thought he was hot shit, but his dick was small and he always prematurely ejaculated. Really he just liked to look at Dean while he wore pretty clothes and lipstick, liked to call him a pretty girl and finger his boypussy until he was satisfied. Dean couldn’t recall if he’d ever cum while in Crowley’s boudoir, and then decided it was better if he hadn’t. Dean didn’t think his body any sort of sacred, but he definitely liked to reserve orgasms for people who actually… y’know… made him orgasm. 

During a job, during his garage work, basically any time any thought could enter his mind that wasn’t about the task at hand… he thought about how he’d be better than Crowley, in every single way. 

Dean made connections everywhere he went. _Zeke’s Bar & Grill_ was a good place to unwind with a beer and have good conversation that didn’t revolve around criminal activity or sucking dick. Zeke was a pretty down to earth dude; Dean liked him because he didn’t say much, but when he did choose to speak, it was meaningful and well thought out. Then there was Ash, the bum who lived upstairs but didn’t lift a finger in the bar. Dean had had quite a few conversations with Ash; he enjoyed the man’s unique view of the world and strange approach to the conversations he and Dean had that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. 

Zeke was a friend, but Ash quickly turned into someone that Dean could share some of his ideals with. 

They both knew that Dean was part of Crowley’s organization. They never asked him about it outright, until one day Dean casually brought up that Crowley was a weak, one-track-mind idiot that wouldn’t be able to find his way out of a wet paper bag even if his life depended on it and he was given a pair of scissors. 

“Wouldn’t it be a hoot to take him out?” Ash had said while slapping his knee, grinning. “Shoot, Dean-o, I bet it wouldn’t be a thang at all to get him off the board.”

For all that Dean had _thought_ about being a better boss than Crowley, it never actually occurred to him that he could make that thought a reality. He had just assumed that Crowley’s gang was so big, his reach so wide, it’d be impossible to take control of. 

“How could we do it?” Dean found himself asking. 

Ash got a glint in his eyes, the aloof Dr. Badass disappearing and making way for the genius that Zeke and Dean knew he really was. 

“Lemme throw you some ideas, compadre, and we’ll get it all sorted out.” 

A few weeks later, Ash introduced Dean to Meg Masters. She weirded him out, and not in the good way. He didn’t really trust her, but Ash did for some weird reason. Meg knew a woman named Ruby who was a fairly successful lawyer and looking for someone to open a firm with. Dean had then slipped the name to Sam, who had been initially confused, but trusted Dean implicitly, so he went along with it. Ash had said something about catching more flies with honey, but Dean was still wary about the women. Especially the interest Ruby had taken with Sam. Even though they were thousands of miles apart, Dean’s possessive streak over his brother ran wider, and the last thing he wanted to do was entrench his pure baby brother in the bad things that Dean was caught up in.

But, Dean also trusted Ash. And so the plan to get Sam, Ruby, and Meg in the same building commenced. It wasn’t difficult at all. This way Dean could keep better tabs on Sam via reports from Ruby and Meg, as well as make sure that Sam stayed on the right side of the law. No matter what kind of trouble Dean has and would get into, he never wanted Sam to be a part of it. One day, Dean’s one phone call _would_ be to Sam… and he would need Meg and Ruby there to help orchestrate his request.

“Now, what you really gotta do is become besties with the FBI,” Ash said one day, his homemade laptop buzzing and whirring in front of him on the bar as he leaned conspiratorially towards Dean. “You get one of ‘em in your pocket, and you could be home free.”

“The FBI?” Dean asked, incredulous. He nearly spit out his beer. Setting the bottle down on the counter, he narrowed his eyes at Ash. “Cops are one thing. They’re easy to corrupt. But FBI… those guys are specifically trained to not be idiots.” 

“You just need one,” Ash said, lifting up a single finger and grinning like an idiot. “Someone good. Someone that the big kahunas won’t expect to go bad. They don’t even gotta go _full on_ bad, y’know, just gotta be… available.” He shrugged. “S’long as you got ‘em thinkin’ they’re on the right side of the law, you can get ‘em to do whatever you need.” 

Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth, holding back an annoyed sigh. “Takin’ out Crowley is one thing, but getting an FBI agent on our side ain’t gonna be easy.”

“So you tell the truth,” Ash said with a shrug. “Or at least most of it. Crowley’s on a lotta lists, and as dumb as he is, he managed to get this far without bein’ caught.”

“Use him as bait to get the FBI’s interest,” Dean thought out loud. “Tell him I got info on Crowley and that I wanna take him down.” 

“But don’t tell him you’re next in line for the throne,” Ash said with a nod, his mullet flopping slightly. He throws Dean the ‘hang loose’ sign, thumb and pinky out as he wiggles his wrist playfully. “Boom. You’ve got the law on your side.” 

“How the hell am I supposed to find an FBI agent?” Dean asked, bewildered and irritated all at once. This could be crazy enough to work. 

Ash patted his laptop lovingly. “I can do a lot with this, Dean-o. I can find you an agent that is a little…” he gestures his hand in the ‘so-so’ motion. “Then all you gotta do is meet him and get him in your corner.”

“Can’t be that easy,” Dean said with a frown. 

“No,” Ash agreed. “But I know you can figure it out.” 

Dean sent a crooked smile over towards Ash, lifting his beer up for a toast. “To the long con?” 

Ash whooped and clinked his beer to Dean’s, “Hell yeah buddy!”

😈😈😈

Ash had given Dean the name of a local agent: Supervisory Special Agent Castiel James Novak. He had done some research on the man, digging into his past and sifting through all the files and reports Castiel has made throughout his years at the FBI. The man was twelve years older than Dean, insanely attractive, and confirmed to be openly homosexual. The man on paper was written to be scarily efficient at his job; for as many cases as he solved he got about as many reprimands for toeing the line of the law.

The further Ash went back, the less information there was about him. He grew up in a religious household: he was homeschooled, then attended a private Catholic high school, and immediately went to college. Pretty boring, really. Being gay was probably the only exciting thing about him.

Castiel majored in Law and Criminal Justice and also studied Forensics, Psychology, and Pathology. After graduating, he ranked at the top of his class at the police academy. He went on to be a beat cop for two years, then got promoted to detective. At twenty-eight he applied to the FBI, and the rest was history. 

Dean read over the information in his hand with a slight frown. As far as he could tell, Castiel was _not_ the agent he needed. But Ash had grinned slyly and pointed to the 

**Sexual Orientation: Homosexual  
Marital Status: Single**

to draw Dean’s attention back to it. 

“Just ‘cause he’s gay don’t mean I’m his type,” Dean said roughly. He stared at Castiel’s FBI badge photo, the black and white image attractive but clearly not enhancing the man’s finer features. 

“You’re probably not,” Ash agreed. “But you’re a conman, Dean. You don’t _gotta_ be his type. Ya just gotta make him _think_ you are.” 

“You got a lotta faith in me, man,” Dean said. Zeke set a plate of nachos down in front of him, which Dean thanked him for with a wink - causing Zeke to blush lightly and suddenly busy himself on the other end of the bar. 

“‘Course I do!” Ash said, slapping Dean’s shoulder with a grin. “You’re the best of the best. Ya just gotta have one night with him and,” he kissed his fingers, blowing them away, “he’s yours.” 

“Dunno if I can fake a whole relationship,” Dean said warily, looking back down at Castiel’s photo. His strong jaw is set and shadowed with stubble, brow pulled down slightly, his eyes intense even in the grainy photo. 

“Think of the endgame,” Ash reminded him, still grinning. He reached out to flick the corner of the paper in Dean’s hand, “And think about how hot this guy is.” 

Resigning himself to the task, Dean nodded. He set the page down, then picked up a tortilla chip loaded with meat and cheese. He took a bite, then turned towards the other miscreants hanging out in the bar, all of them Crowley’s gang with sworn loyalty to Dean, and Dean only. “Today’s game is Raiders versus Seahawks. Who wants to bet?” 

The crowd cheered, toasting Dean and the impending gamble.

😈😈😈

For two months Dean trailed Castiel. And holy hell, the man was _way_ hotter in person. Dean learned that Castiel was a workaholic; if he wasn’t working a case, he was holed up in his FBI office learning about new cases, and if he wasn’t doing either of those things he was at the gym, or grocery shopping, or shut up at home. He had a best friend, Charlie Bradbury, technical analyst for the FBI, and she was the only person allowed access to Castiel’s apartment. The man was private, strict with himself, and rarely cracked a smile.

Dean rented an apartment near the grocery store Castiel liked to frequent. Castiel never went on dates, never brought men home. Dean saw a few different advances from men and women alike on a few different occasions, but Castiel had brushed them all off rather… brusquely. 

Castiel was interesting, unlike anyone Dean had ever met before.

Well- not that Dean had _met_ him, yet. 

It took Dean a while to figure out what persona to adopt in order to not be rebuked by Castiel. Some men were too aggressive. Some men stuttered over their words. Dean didn’t pay attention to the women at all because Castiel had no interest in them, anyway. Lurking around, Dean started to piece together what, perhaps, Castiel’s ideal person may be. 

Someone casual, but not too laid back to think the world is a joke. Someone fit. Someone with a sense of humor, someone who can make Castiel’s lip twitch ever so slightly. Someone not looking to impress him. Someone forward, but not aggressive. As Dean started to build this perfect person, he started to see some of his own attributes reflected in this made up persona. He tried not to let it affect him - this is a _con_ \- but he couldn’t help but wonder… would Castiel _actually_ be interested in him?

In the two months of observing Castiel, Dean found himself growing slightly obsessed. All of the people in his life were pawns and pieces in the chess game, but Castiel was a variable. He was a piece not to be thrown away or discarded. He was a piece that had the potential to follow Dean all the way to the king’s square. The more Dean learned about him, the more Dean _wanted_ Castiel. 

This was dangerous.

Dean couldn’t stop.

A call from Ash came in, Dean having to duck out of the gym Castiel was in to take it. 

“Heya Dean-o, bad news,” Ash said, words grave but voice cheerful. “Crowley’s lookin’ for ya.” 

“Why hasn’t he called me?” Dean asked, brow furrowing. 

“‘Cause he wants to blow you up,” Ash said casually.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Could you treat things with a _little_ more urgency?” 

“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Ash said. “He knows about your temporary digs and it sounds like he’s gonna send the goons to, uh, ‘deal’ with your little side job.”

“Does he know about Castiel?” Dean asked, his heart suddenly thundering. 

“Nah, he just knows that you’ve got an apartment that’s not in your name and that you’ve seemingly been on vacation from your duties to him.”

Dean cursed under his breath. “Damn it, I knew I shoulda picked up more jobs from him. I didn’t want him to get suspicious.”

“Listen, I don’t wanna panic you, ‘cause it’s really _not_ a big deal, but you know when Crowley sends to collect you you’re gonna have to put all this on hold?” 

“Fuck,” Dean growled as he started to walk away from the gym and towards his apartment. “I haven’t met Cas yet.” 

“Hold your horses,” Ash said. “You don’t think I’d get this information and not know _when_ it’s gonna happen, right?” 

“Spit it the fuck out, Ash!”

“Thursday morning. Ya gotta get Novak in your pocket before then.”

“Cas grocery shops on Wednesdays,” Dean started to think aloud. “He likes coupons. Today is Monday, I can get a discounted Sunday paper and clip some coupons…”

“Whatever you do, buddy, ya gotta do it fast. They’re tapin’ C-4 to your door Thursday morning at around seven.”

Dean was glad he was walking, because he’d start pacing if he wasn’t. “If I get Cas to my place Wednesday night I gotta kick him out. I need him on my side but I don’t want him in danger.”

“Yeah,” Ash agreed. “If he’s dead he can’t help us.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snarled. 

“Woah, touchy,” Ash said with a touch of amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re already in love with Novak.” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Dean said lowly. “If he’s dead he can’t help us and then I’ve done all this fucking legwork for nothing.” It felt like a lie even as the thought formed in his brain, but he couldn’t let Ash know that he’d grown an odd sort of attachment for Castiel.

“He’s a workaholic,” Ash reminded him. “He’ll wanna go home after a tussle or two so he can get to work on time in the morning.” 

“Yeah,” Dean said distractedly. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re welcome for the heads up,” Ash drawled.

Dean let out a blustery sigh, “I appreciate you, Ash.” After a pause, he added, “When Crowley gets me he’s not gonna let me go for a while. Can you handle things on your own?” 

“I think I can nudge a thing or two in the right direction while you’re gone,” Ash reassured him. 

“Thanks, man. I’ll see you on the other side.” 

😈😈😈

At twenty-three, Dean met Castiel.

Seducing him was a fucking disaster. Over the past two months Dean had found himself starting to obsess over the agent, but meeting him in person and actually _talking_ and joking with him flipped Dean on his fucking ass. Dean managed to keep his cool, for the most part, but being with Castiel in the intimate setting of the cafe, talking about stupid fucking shit… Dean fell head over heels and he fucking knew it. 

When Castiel left to go take his groceries home, Dean nearly ran to his apartment. It was clean but sparse, and he couldn’t change any of that, but he felt wholly unprepared and out of his depth. The only love he had ever felt in his life was for his brother, but that was different. For Sammy it’d been wholesome and pure, something to keep Dean upright on the days he’d been beaten down. 

With Castiel Dean felt fucking _electric_ , like every single cell in his body was vibrating, like every neuron in his brain was firing at the same time. Dean had never not been able to feel sexual arousal, groomed as he was at such a young age, but this was the first time it had swooped in on him without him actively searching it out. He knew he had to seduce Castiel, but now… he _wanted_ to. He wanted to see more of Castiel’s gummy smile, listen to his stupid deadpan jokes, watch the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he tried to repress his mirth. 

When Castiel had showed up, it was game over. Dean threw everything out the window so he could throw himself at Castiel, wholly and truly. Dean had a false name, but he gave Castiel his true self - for the first time in his life, he gave someone _everything_ , trusted Castiel with his mind, body, and soul. He knew Castiel felt the gravity of the situation without being privy to it, and the way Castiel took care of him and let himself be taken care of in return was… well, words can't describe it. 

“If I have my way, I’ll never let you leave my sight.”

“Please,” Castiel replied.

Carved open with the knife of Castiel’s unfiltered adoration, all of that attention focused on _Dean_ and Dean alone, he let himself succumb. When Castiel had admitted that he’d like to stay the night, Dean had been floored. And then Dean was vulnerable, telling Castiel the partial truth, but not the whole truth, needing to be _heard_ and _understood_ in a way only Castiel could.

“Somethin’ about you, Cas. I’ll kick myself forever if I let you walk out that door and don’t do everything in my power to see you again.”

In turn, Castiel chose to be vulnerable, and in the end, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The following morning, the impending dread of the door being blasted open had Dean bantering stupid things with Castiel, just to see his smile one last time. He knew he had Castiel, but Dean had no idea when he’d see him again.

In as few specific words as possible, Dean tried to let Castiel know his lifestyle. In the same breath he tried to warn Castiel of what was to come - Dean had a task he needed to get done. He needed to knock Crowley off of his ivory throne and fit the crown snugly over his head and even if he could recognize in that very moment that he was fucking in love with a God damn FBI agent, he _needed_ to say as little and as much as possible at the same time.

“I won’t hold it against you, Michael.”

Dean would kill to hear his own name from Castiel’s lips.

“You promise? Promise me, Cas.”

“I promise.” 

Dean held Castiel tightly to him, looking up at the clock on the wall. He cradled Castiel protectively, knowing he wouldn’t be the perfect shield, but doing the best he could to make sure he would get the brunt of the blast.

The door exploded, and everything went black.

😈😈😈

Crowley had beat Dean black and blue himself. Dean had a lot of smart comments about Crowley finally doing some of his own work, which was met with more beatings and torture, including but not limited to, Chinese water torture, being locked in a cage, and starved. Dean muscled through it all, never once breaking or saying sorry for shirking his duties to Crowley’s gang. Eventually Crowley figured Dean would never be sorry, but he at least had him in his sights again, and that was really all he cared about.

Dean eased his way back into tasks. For the most part he hung around Crowley, acting as a glorified and gory personal assistant. Crowley rarely let him leave his side. This was where Dean could do the most damage, though; he sometimes guided Crowley’s meetings and conversations, offering up ‘helpful tips’ that really would only benefit him in the end. Whenever Crowley got pissed at his subordinates Dean would implant little ideas in his head: _Wouldn’t it be better if you had less idiots on the payroll?_ , _I hear Bora Bora is awesome this time of year, you could work remotely._ , _I could take care of that for you._ ; these little throwaway comments Dean made at the perfect time to get them nestled in Crowley’s brain. The man, for all the cunning and smarts he had, could be so easily susceptible to persuasion of the sweetest kind. After all, he cared most about numbers and money. 

Because Dean was ‘grounded’ and therefore stuck as Crowley’s personal assistant, planning his assassination had been too easy. Through the network of men that frequented _Zeke’s_ under Dean’s watch that were two-timing Crowley, Dean stayed in contact with Ash. And oh, Ash was so _good_. Dean wore a wire frequently to get the sound and tone of Crowley’s voice - a live feed, not a recording, so Ash could start building up a library of Crowley-isms. 

So genius, so easy, Dean thought it was nearly laughable, what they were doing. 

Dean mixed some arsenic into Crowley’s nightcap and watched as the man spluttered to death in his sleep. Some of Dean’s loyalists came in, cleaned up the body, and Ash fashioned Crowley’s voicemail to announce that Crowley had, indeed, gone tropical, and would be handling matters over the phone from now on, because he felt his I.Q. and life force being sucked out of him every time he even so much as looked at one of his cronies.

Fuck, it had been almost _too_ easy.

For the longest time Dean had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did. Under Dean’s orders and directions Ash made the calls with Crowley’s voice, dispatching people as normal, but shifting the prerogative slightly. Dean wanted a crime syndicate, but he didn’t want Crowley’s sloppy seconds. No, Dean would build an entirely new empire… and when his time to be crowned came, it would be the move of the century. 

A year and a half passed. The biggest stint ever was in the works, Ash for once breaking his aloof persona and vehemently rallying against Dean’s plan. Zeke quietly supported him, and all of Dean’s loyalists had been concerned, but ready to follow Dean into battle.

Dean, as Crowley, ordered a hit on himself. Crowley’s biggest fans, Lucifer, Asmodeus, and Alastair would be all too happy to take him out. Dean was still around the compound, doing various tasks, still portraying himself as Crowley’s unwilling lapdog so as to not arouse suspicion. As far as the three goons knew, Crowley had gotten tired of Dean moping around and not pulling his weight.

“Do away with him,” the Crowley-voice said on the phone with Lucifer. 

“You’re fuckin’ suicidal,” Ash glowered as he hung up the phone call.

“It’s gotta be like this,” Dean said. “I gotta take myself off the board for a little bit. That’s the only way this’ll all work.” 

“Don’t like it,” Ash said, folding his scrawny arms over his chest.

“Hey, man. I’ll be ok,” Dean reached out and clapped Ash’s bony, bare shoulder. “And if I’m not, then you get behind the wheel and dissolve the whole thing. If I can’t have Crowley’s empire, no one can.” 

“What about Novak?” Ash asked. “He rallied a storm for you at first, y’know. He only stopped ‘cause he knows Michael’s not your real name.”

“We’re bringin’ him back in,” Dean said with a grin. “Have ‘Crowley’ send stipulations to Lucifer. I know exactly where I want my body dumped.” 

“Man, this is morbid as hell,” Ash said, wiping his brow. 

“This is what we gotta do,” Dean said, looking at the laptop monitor where Crowley’s voice will live forever.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

😈😈😈

Dean _barely_ lived. If he hadn’t shifted at the last moment, the knife would have completely severed his carotid artery. As it was, he was lucky. Losing consciousness and blood sucked, yeah, but the dumpsite was close to the attack site, and when the three goons threw him into the dumpster, surrounded by fetid rotten food and things unmentionable, Dean nearly let out a maniacal laugh. Instead he continued to play dead, counting down from the last time he’d had a glance at his watch.

Three minutes later, Castiel lifted the lid to the dumpster.

Dean tried to laugh in relief, but instead the pain caused a pained yell to rip from his shredded throat.

The game began.

😈😈😈

Recovery in the hospital was rough. Dean was beaten and stabbed so bad he was in the ICU for months and months and then in physical therapy for what felt like ages. He’d told the cops he’d come clean about working with Crowley, for free basically. That trial had been amusing more than anything, Dean not even trying to act sorry for the crimes he’d committed. He knew he wouldn’t be put to death, but he also knew he’d be locked up for good.

He never mentioned Castiel. Castiel was at the proceedings but it was formal, because he'd been the responding agent. They never looked at each other, never gave any indication they knew each other. Dean knew Castiel had a reaction for him… he just had to wait for it.

When Dean skipped his phone call and asked to see Castiel instead, he wasn't disappointed.

"You _assbutt_!" 

The punch to Dean's jaw had been expected, but he was still sore from his beatdown months prior. In the corner the guard tensed, but Dean waved him off as he righted himself in his chair. Castiel was _fuming_ and damn, he looked hot as hell, hair and suit disheveled and rumpled likely from him pacing and fighting with himself about going to visit Dean.

"I deserved that," Dean said as he coughed. His voice was still raw from the doctor sewing his throat up. 

"I shouldn't even _be_ here," Castiel hissed so the guard couldn't hear him. He sat down opposite Dean, the table between them, rage making the vein in his temple pulse as he clenched his jaw shut.

"I know how this looks-" 

"Do you?" Castiel asked, incredulous. His blue eyes shone with ill-concealed fury as he folded his hands neatly on the table. "Because last time I checked, _Winchester_ , I am an FBI agent and you are a…" he raked his disgusted gaze over Dean's ugly orange jumpsuit. "... _criminal_."

"Listen," Dean said a bit urgently. He knew Castiel would react negatively, but he also knew he had to reel it in. "I was in Crowley's gang. I know you been tryna bust him for years. I can help you do it."

"In exchange for what?" Castiel asked with a sneer. "Your sentence will not be lessened because you're a nark."

"No, but my stay could be a little… cushier," Dean said with a smirk. "You come visit me once a week- hell, twice a month. I'll give you pertinent information."

"You want me to risk my badge for social calls?" Castiel said blandly, though his eyes still flashed dangerously.

"Is it risky if you're getting information?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, clearly thinking. "I suppose not."

"And," Dean grinned a little. "The warden owes me a favor or two. If you ask him nicely I can be upgraded to the presidential suite."

"Why," Castiel growled, "would I do _you_ any favors."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Y'know, our romantic night? Our sensual tumbles in the sheets? I made you bacon."

"Bold of you to assume that that night means anything to me now."

For some reason, that stung. Dean couldn't help the little frown that crossed his face, but he wiped it away immediately as he covered it up with a charming smile. "I'm hurt, Cas."

"And I'm done." Castiel stood up, nodding at the guard.

As soon as he left, Dean scowled and smacked the table with his cuffed hands in annoyance. He _needed_ Castiel on his side.

He'd get him.

He had to.

😈😈😈

Benny was a godsend. When he showed up Dean could have cried. Benny was still soft and kind, but a little gruff around the edges now. Dean didn't know what he pulled to get assigned permanently to Dean's cell, but he assumed Benny had done good in his career... and because it benefited him, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Dean could communicate with Ash and Sam through Benny, now. It didn’t take long to persuade Benny to help him out. He just batted his pretty lashes and pulled the ‘we’ve been friends forever’ card. What a softie.

He gave orders as Crowley, putting people exactly where he told Castiel they would be. Castiel's arrest and hit count went up, along with his faith in Dean; and Dean felt a little bad about manipulating the man like this, but the endgame was, at that point, more important than the means.

Through Benny Dean was able to talk to Sam and convince him to not bring in the cavalry to get him out of jail. Instead Dean carried on like he wasn't imprisoned, asking Sam about how he was liking being a criminal defense lawyer, reminding him that Ruby was a soul sucking demoness and that he shouldn't get tangled up with her, as well as waxing poetic about Castiel.

Sam didn't trust Castiel. Dean assured him that the agent was in his pocket, but Sam told him he was thinking with his dick and he ought to be careful. Of course, Dean blustered his way through some flimsy excuses before inevitably changing the subject. Eventually, Sam and Castiel would come face to face, and work things out themselves. Dean wasn't looking forward to the day... but he knew it was a necessary evil.

In the meantime, Dean composed all of his moves from his impenetrable fortress. 

Soon his side of the board would be exactly how he wanted it.

😈😈😈

Castiel killed Alastair, blew up Lucifer and Asmodeus, got rid of Alpha and Roman, and Dean knew he had him. Castiel could play cool all he wanted, but Dean knew better. The small peeks of possessive Castiel, jealous Castiel, vengeful Castiel... that had been what Dean had been waiting for and oh, was it beautiful.

Crowley's worst players were off the board and Castiel stood strong and tall by Dean's side.

It took time, but with every visit Dean wormed his way in. Soft words here, gentle touches there. It was a two way street but Dean was setting the speed limit. He let Castiel do whatever he wanted to him and Dean was a slut for it... and willingly so. Just like their one night stand, in Dean's cell he peeled back his layers for Castiel and Castiel only. 

He knew Castiel was aware of what was happening, and he also knew that just like him, Castiel was _letting_ it happen. 

Castiel surely thought they were heading for self-destruction... but the phoenix can only rise from its ashes.

😈😈😈

"Do you love me?"

No reply. Dean knew that Castiel wouldn't be able to give him those exact words.

"I love you," Dean said honestly. He loved Castiel the instant he saw that gummy smile in person, the second he had those hands on his body.

Castiel didn't reply.

Dean changed tactics. "I need you." Another honest truth, their hot bodies pressed together, Castiel looking up at Dean with the kind of wonder he'd had all those years ago. "Do you need me?"

"I need you," Castiel finally replied, flaying himself down to the bone in order to say it.

"Please don't leave me for that long ever again," Dean also stripped himself down to the marrow.

"Are you Crowley?" Castiel asked as they caught their breath.

Dean finally felt calm for the first time in five years.

"No. But I'm the one who killed him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and yet, I'm sure you've got more questions than answers...  
> Also, writing in past tense is hard as fuck and I hate it


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an interlude of sorts.  
> the plot has been revealed, the climax (ha) has been reached.  
> a short chapter to tie the two halves of the story together.

Castiel Novak always excelled at _everything_ he tried. School, sports, musical instruments; the academy, detective work, FBI training. There has never been anything that stumped him in any sort of manner, no problem that he couldn’t solve, no mystery he couldn’t unwind. Castiel was used to being able to find threads and pull, he was used to getting to the bottom of black holes, and he was used to doing it quickly and proficiently.

The black hole he thought Dean Winchester was suddenly explodes into a supernova of color and light, drawing him in with his violent and untamable beauty.

Tangled together, still sweaty and sticky, Castiel’s eyes open to stare at the concrete wall behind Dean’s head. His heart rate doesn’t pick up, it doesn’t slow, time doesn’t stop, the earth continues to rotate… Dean stays in his arms, beautiful and nowhere near as broken as Castiel thought him to be.

Castiel should feel used. He should feel gullible and naive, should feel like the rug has been ripped out from under him, should be scared of how he falls endlessly into the black hole, on and on and on and on… 

Dean tells his story almost perfunctorily. He puts in all the details in the right spots to make all those red lines on Castiel’s evidence board all the way back in his apartment link together correctly. Everything he says lines up with the threads Castiel had been following but couldn’t quite connect. And when Dean finishes his story, lining up the past and the present, Castiel feels… free.

Dean continues to surprise him, continues to break all of his preconceptions about him. The thing that Castiel clings onto the most is that Dean and Ash had specifically selected _him_. He wasn’t just convenient, he was _the one_ that they needed in order to set their plans in motion. There’s a misplaced sense of pride blooming in Castiel’s chest at that knowledge. 

He should pull away. He should leave Dean, never return, and allow Crowley’s empire to crumble on its own. He should come clean to Chief Singer, turn in his badge and gun, he should retire early and go someplace remote where he doesn’t have to communicate with humans ever again.

He should do things that indicate his conscience is in tact. He should do things that point him in the right direction on his moral compass. 

He doesn’t do any of that. 

He instead tightens his hold on Dean, drawing him further into their embrace, tucking Dean’s head under his chin as he closes his eyes and lets out a slow, steady breath. Dean melts a little, relaxing in a way he has yet to accomplish in all their years of knowing each other, his arms and legs wrapping around Castiel just as tightly.

Castiel’s voice is low, steady as it pierces the tension in the air. 

“What do we do next?”

He can feel Dean’s grin against his throat. 

This is it.

💀💀💀

An unknown number rings Castiel’s cell at three p.m. the following Saturday.

“Novak,” he answers.

“Novak,” Sam Winchester greets. “Busy?” 

Castiel glances around his living room from where he’s sitting on his couch reading a book. “Not particularly.”

“Can you grab us from the airport?” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “Who is ‘us’?”

“Me, Ruby, and Meg.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose in mild annoyance, Castiel sighs. “Dean didn’t mention you were coming.”

“Dean doesn’t know,” Sam says. “I’m here for you.” 

Standing up, Castiel puts his book on the coffee table before walking over to the foyer. He’s dressed down in jeans, a cozy sweater and thick socks to abate the February chill. “Do you have accommodations?” 

“Yeah.” 

Castiel slips his feet into some comfortable loafers. “I’ll be there in twenty.” 

Twenty minutes later sees Castiel pulling up to the loading zone at the airport, unlocking his car doors when he sees Sam’s tall frame heading towards him. He’s flanked by Ruby and Meg, each of them rolling along one carry-on suitcase and dressed casually. Castiel pops the trunk so they can put their luggage inside, then nods stiffly when Sam slips into the passenger seat. 

“Wow, Clarence,” Meg croons as she gets into the backseat. “What an economical ride.”

Castiel cuts her an unamused glance in the rear view mirror, her response pursed lips and a blown kiss. 

“Thank you for picking us up,” Ruby says, apparently the only person in the group that has any sort of manners. “We’re staying at the Hilton.” 

Castiel taps his navigation system and puts the car in gear, pulling out of the airport traffic. “Why are you here for me?” 

Sam reaches under his seat to scoot it back a bit, before stretching his legs out. “We need to talk about Dean.” 

“I assumed so.” 

“I mean about-” Sam’s gaze roves over Castiel’s body. “Turn your cell phone off.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel fishes his phone out of his pants pocket, thumbing the power button until it shuts completely down.

Satisfied, Sam continues. “The endgame is coming up on us and we need to discuss Dean and what’s going to happen once Crowley’s gang is officially disintegrated.”

“I thought Dean wanted to stay in prison?” Castiel asks. 

“Only until everything is all said and done,” Sam says. “Soon as the heat’s off, he’s getting out.”

“And by ‘getting out’ you mean…” Castiel sends Sam a sideways glance.

“I wish it were the legal way,” the younger Winchester huffs slightly. “He’s gonna do another disappearing act.” 

Castiel frowns. “Fake his death?” 

“And then break out,” Sam confirms. 

Meg lets out a dramatic sigh from the backseat, “All the theatrics. He _could_ just escape.” 

“And then every law agency in every country with access to headline news would be on the alert for him,” Ruby says, her voice annoyed and suggesting that they have hashed out this exact conversation multiple times. 

“Besides, we don’t want Benny in any sort of trouble,” Sam says. “If Dean escapes on his watch there could be repercussions. We need Benny to keep his job so no suspicion falls on him.” 

“If Dean leaves in a body bag it won’t be anyone’s fault?” Castiel asks, incredulous. 

“Meg has altered Dean’s medical records to show some complications with Dean’s heart health. If he dies of a sudden heart attack, no questions will be asked. Ruby will be the coroner that confirms Dean’s death and hauls him away. We’ll take him to the morgue, he’ll be cremated, and then we’ll be on our way.” 

“And where, praytell, will we be going?” Castiel asks, unamused. 

“Dean said you’d know,” Sam says simply.

Castiel falls quiet, absorbing the plan. As far as jailbreaks go it’s pretty unimaginative, but he supposes if it’s minimally complicated, then there will only be minimal complications. Looking into the backseat via the mirror, then glancing over towards Sam, something clicks in Castiel’s head. “All three of you are here because this is going to happen soon?” 

“I thought you said he was a genius,” Meg drones. “Good thing he’s cute.”

Sam cuts her a glare, “First of all, he’s the smartest man I’ve ever come across- even smarter than Dean, so stow your bullshit and show some respect, Meg. Second of all, he only just learned _everything_ , so cut him some slack.” He adjusts his hoodie, slouching slightly in his seat, muttering, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, sheesh.”, looking everything like a twenty-four year old baby brother.

Ruby leans forward in her seat to talk over Meg and Sam’s bickering. “We’re going to hang around for a month or so, first. There are still a few loose ends we need to clean up before we bust him out, and then we’ll be back to put the plan in motion.”

“How close are you to retirement?” Sam asks. 

Caught unawares by the question, Castiel frowns a little as he thinks. “Technically, twenty-five years. I can’t pull out my full pension or be released with honors before then. Unless I-” he blinks, another thing clicking into place. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “Unless I have an accident on the job and am no longer physically capable of working. Then I would be released honorably, with full benefits.” 

Ruby reaches out and claps Castiel on the shoulder. “You _are_ a smart cookie.” 

“Are you suggesting I compromise my career and become disabled… for Dean?” 

“Are you suggesting you wouldn’t?” Sam asks. 

Wringing his fingers on the steering wheel, Castiel glares at the bumper of the car in front of him as they crawl through downtown towards the hotel. 

“Wouldn’t you like to be _free_?” Ruby’s melodious voice floats from the backseat. Castiel feels a chill at her word choice. “Unshackled. Unchained. By Dean’s side with your free will and an arsenal at your feet. You’d be able to operate independently without worrying about what kinds of laws you’re breaking.”

“I do not need your sales pitch,” Castiel snaps. Everyone quiets. Ten minutes of silence leads to Castiel pulling up to the hotel, jaw clenched and gut squirming. 

Ruby and Meg get out. He pops the trunk. Sam lingers in the passenger seat after he unbuckles, sending Castiel what he thinks Dean might have referred to once as ‘puppy eyes’. 

“You’re in deep, Novak. I know you know that. And I also know that you’re aware there’s no way you come out of this without repercussions. So just… talk to Dean, ok?” Sam hesitates for a second, then reaches out to awkwardly clap Castiel’s shoulder in what is probably supposed to be a friendly way. “I’ll be in touch.” 

Alone, Castiel lets out a breath. He drives home on autopilot, barely registering brake lights and blinker signals, only coming to his senses when he’s at home in his bathroom, drawing a hot bath and pouring in epsom salts. Looking around, he sighs, letting free some of his emotions. As much as he’s done for Dean, Castiel has spent pretty much his whole life gearing up for a career in justice. Even though he’d consider himself compromised at this point, Castiel still feels a strong draw to the right side of the law, even if the line becomes blurred and nearly invisible every time he’s with Dean.

Dean. 

Stripping, Castiel lowers himself into the steaming bath, his skin immediately turning pink from the heat. 

Castiel’s head hasn’t been clear since the second he laid eyes on Dean Winchester. He’s fully aware of that and has done a pretty terrible job of rectifying it. He knows a part of him doesn’t _want_ to fix it; he knows he’s malleable for the man, knows he’ll bend and never break for the man, and the part of him that tells him it’s wrong gets quieter and quieter every single day. 

He starts to compartmentalize and analyze.

Sex with Dean: incredible. Unlike anything Castiel has ever experienced before. Between the fetishes and the chemistry there’s an underlying passion that lights them up from the inside, a fire that fries Castiel’s brain cells in the most pleasant of ways, better than any drug ever could.

Conversations with Dean: intelligent. Dean downplays his smarts with offhand comments and self-deprecating jokes, but he’s a mastermind. Being let in on the scheme has opened Castiel’s eyes to a completely different side of Dean. The man is smart, yes, but he is _cunning_ in a way that Castiel never could be. Dean says jump, and strangers on the street ask ‘how high?’. 

Quiet moments with Dean: invigorating. The white noise in Castiel’s brain quiets to a nearly comforting hum when they’re together and just… existing. Either lying in bed or sitting close while they read, the walls of the cell melt away and almost fool Castiel into believing they’re in a dwelling, just the two of them, private and intimate.

Opening his eyes, Castiel comes to the realization that all he’s experienced in the past five years… he’s _already_ thrown his career away the night he met him in exchange for _feelings_ and _pleasure_ , all for one man. 

One man capable of breaking through Castiel’s defenses and exposing the man underneath.

One man capable of taking over the world.

One man.

Freedom.

He closes his eyes.

_”Toes in the sand, Cas,” Dean says five years ago, confessing his dream getaway to Castiel between rounds. “Wouldn’t that be great? Wake up with the sun, catch the waves. Hang out with the locals.” His toes playfully wiggle against the tops of Castiel’s feet, green eyes sparkling. “A place where no one needs to know your name or where you came from.”_

_“Sounds like a dream,” Castiel agrees. He moves a hand to slip it down Dean’s side, before rounding the curve of his hip to grab the meat of his ass and rock their hips together._

_“You’d come?” Dean asks, playful and boyish hope glimmering in his eyes as his erection slides against Castiel’s._

_“As long as you were there,” Castiel murmurs, “I’d go anywhere.”_

💀💀💀

Even though Sam is in town working behind the scenes, Castiel is let in on every conversation and decision making process. Sam told him not to tell Dean he’s here, which of course meant the first thing Castiel said when he saw Dean the other day was “Hello, Dean. Sam is in town.”, which, surprisingly, made Dean hoot in surprise and happiness. Castiel had been caught off-guard, but Dean said he’d been wondering when “the plan” would be set in motion, and he was happy to leave Sam alone so all the details could get ironed out.

Castiel’s bland announcement led to a _very_ enthusiastic blowjob, in any case, due to Dean’s buoyed mood. 

Little by little, Castiel gets let in on the plan, which Sam and Dean refer to as “The End”. Sam meets Castiel in various public places, discreetly and quickly so as not to draw attention to the slight deviations in Castiel’s routine, just in case Big Brother decides to check in on him. Castiel visits _Zeke’s_ once a week, establishing the location as a new part in his daily comings and goings. With every conversation, with every interaction, the web around Dean unweaves, Castiel finally to see every single moving piece. 

It’s hypnotic. It’s masterful. Castiel thinks he’s never seen anything so intricate and beautiful before. 

He doesn’t see much of Ruby and Meg, though it’s probably for the best. Meg rubs him the wrong way, and he’s still wary of Ruby strictly based on the knowledge that Dean is wary of her. Castiel’s perfectly capable of forming his own opinions about people, but it’s been pointed out on multiple occasions that he doesn’t process information like the average person, so Ruby might seem a little off to him, but she doesn’t raise any alarm bells. She sets Dean on edge, though, and Castiel might have the emotional capacity of a rock, but he’s tuned to Dean like a NASA satellite, therefore Castiel finds himself reacting to her. 

Castiel slows down his visits to the prison. He informs Chief Singer that he’s gotten all the information he can out of Winchester, and has also noticed “a decline in the criminal’s health”. It wouldn’t do to stress him to the point of death- he still has to pay for his crimes, after all. Chief Singer says he’s satisfied with all that Castiel has done so far, congratulates him on a job well done, and then starts giving him field tasks once more, Winchester out of sight, out of mind. 

Castiel’s last visit to the prison has a strange sensation knotted up behind his sternum. He nods to Benny as he opens the door to Dean’s cell, exhaling slowly. His eyes feast upon Dean, lying naked on his bed, a few extra blankets and pillows surrounding him, his cock hard, eyes dark, cheeks flushed as he watches Castiel enter. Shutting the door behind him Castiel immediately starts undressing, dropping articles of clothing as he walks towards the bed; when he’s fully naked at the edge of the mattress he climbs on with the grace of a panther, dipping down to press his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. 

“Three months,” Dean says, fingers tangling through Castiel’s thick locks. Even he seems to be particularly pensieve in the face of this final meeting. “In three months I die.”

“In five months a crook will get the drop on me,” Castiel recites, voice a low rumble. He starts sucking kisses into Dean’s skin, shifting to settle between the man’s legs. 

“Have you decided…?” Dean settles, looking up at Castiel through ginger lashes. 

“My body is resilient,” he says. “I’ve healed through a lot. I will have to put my body through a great deal of stress in order to be declared unfit to work.” 

Dean’s hands run down Castiel’s back. “Legs?” 

“Right leg,” Castiel arches slightly into Dean’s touch. “Left shoulder.”

“Bullets?” Dean breathes, skin flushing.

“Meg said she’d like to run me over with a car, for dramatic effect.” Castiel brushes his nose against Dean’s, darting his tongue out to taste his lips. Meg is her own brand of crazy and part of Castiel knows that her running him over will be some sort of outlet for him blatantly refusing her advances. After all, she’d been rather quick to make the suggestion. “Blow out my knee. Then shoot me in the shoulder. My shoulder will heal but even with surgery my leg…”

“Gonna have a cane?” Dean’s voice is nearly a moan. He wraps his legs around Castiel’s waist, their erections sliding together. “Gonna be a silver fox with a limp, Cas?” 

“Others will see a cane,” he nips sharply at Dean’s lower lip, “but I will see an easily accessible instrument to beat you with.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean groans, arching up and trying to get Castiel to properly kiss him. “Gonna beat me black and blue with your cane, old man?” 

One of Castiel’s hands moves to Dean’s ass, gripping the flesh and digging his blunt nails into the meat, leaving angry red crescents behind. “I think, after all of this, you’d deserve it.” 

“I’d do my best to deserve it every day, baby,” Dean pants. 

Castiel’s hand pulls away only to lay a stinging slap on the outside of Dean’s thigh. He hisses in response, keening slightly and writhing a bit on the bed. Leaning down, Castiel starts biting along Dean’s collarbone. “We won’t see each other for seven months.” 

Dean’s fingers flex in Castiel’s hair, a winded chuckle leaving his lips. “Gonna miss me?” 

“I think we both know how I am after not seeing you for any length of time,” Castiel says casually. He sucks Dean’s left nipple into his mouth.

“Nh-ah,” Dean gasps and arches. “Yeah, I know. You get all murder-y and psycho and it’s so fucking hot. How many people you gonna kill this time, huh? Seven months is a long time. Been a while since you’ve been able to off anyone… you feel the itch yet?” 

The words should be strange. It should probably worry Castiel that Dean has made this observation - it should probably concern Castiel that there’s even an observation to make in the first place. But that darkness inside him, the one he kept bottled up until he got tangled up with Dean Winchester… He can keep a lid on it because it’s necessary, but his trigger finger itches, the white static in his head flaring up at inopportune times. With the fieldwork Chief Singer has been giving him he’s been on his best behavior; he goes by the book, makes what people perceive as ‘better’ judgment calls and, most importantly, he hasn’t killed a single suspect. 

Castiel’s focus narrows in on the sound of Dean’s pleased moans as he teases across his chest with teeth and tongue. By now Castiel has embraced his darker side, his cold side, the only warmth in his life coming from first and foremost: Dean; the other bit of warmth coming from Charlie. In seven months he’ll never see her again, though, so he’s been trying to distance himself. She thinks he’s busy. He thinks he’ll have a hard time saying goodbye if he’s given the chance. 

“I think you shouldn’t worry about how I’ll pass the time,” Castiel rumbles against Dean’s fifth rib. He nips sharply at his skin, “I’ll be crippled, anyway.” 

“D’you really think that’s gonna stop you from bein’ a badass?” Dean asks with a chuckle. “Pretty sure you could kick ass and take names from a wheelchair, babe.” 

“I’d rather not test that theory,” Castiel remarks. He props up a little, looking over Dean’s features. This is the last time he’ll see him for the better part of a year. Throughout everything, they’ve only gotten closer, even through the arguments and disagreements. Castiel knew he was fucked the minute he stepped into this cell after Dean was imprisoned, but he’s finally gotten past caring. He has a radical acceptance of the situation; even if he did end up being a pawn on the board, his servitude to this man squirming and panting beneath him has been well worth it. 

A glimpse of beauty in exchange for the breath of death. 

Dean’s green eyes glimmer, his hand reaching up so his finger can gently tap against Castiel’s temple. “You’re thinking too loud.” 

“You infuriate me,” Castiel suddenly says, his voice calm despite his words. Dean’s hand drops, his eyes widening in surprise. “You’ve ruined my career. You’ve ruined _me_. You’ve taken everything I have, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the waste bin of the criminal underground. There’s no guarantee that we’ll be together when all of this is over. You could take off to the middle of the pacific and leave me here to live out the rest of my days as an invalid, without a career, without friends, without _anything_. I could mean nothing to you, in the end, and even if that were the case… I’d do it all over again, because when you took everything away from me, you _freed _me.”__

__Dean gazes at him with wonder, those spring greens looking a little wet, his shiny lips parted, body relaxed. A few breaths pass between them, then Dean reaches up to grip at Castiel’s shoulders, gently rolling him over like a lover, settling between his legs and then settling over him in a tight embrace. Castiel is stiff at first, but Dean persists, holding him gently but firmly, tucking Castiel’s face into the crook of his neck. Closing his eyes, Castiel relaxes fraction by fraction, until he’s putty in Dean’s hold._ _

__Castiel’s voice is much quieter when he says, “Don’t leave me.”_ _

__“Fuck, Cas,” Dean’s voice sounds a little choked up. He covers it with a laugh. “You’re a crazy sonuvabitch, you know that?” He presses a kiss to Castiel’s messy hair, burying his nose in the strands. The agent stays silent, so Dean continues. “You’re comin’ with me. Wherever I go, Cas, I want you by my side. I mean that. No lies, no secrets. After all you’ve done for me, I wouldn’t leave you behind.”_ _

__Castiel tries not to feel weak, but emotions are hard to process, and the swell that he feels when he connects this Dean with the Dean he fell into bed with five years ago, he finds his eyes closing tightly as he braces himself against the onslaught of feelings. He keeps such a tight lid on matters regarding Dean that when he unscrews even just a little bit, he gets flooded. The tsunami that is Dean Winchester sweeps his feet out from under him and carries him away into the abyss, where he goes blindly but gladly, knowing that in the end he’ll wash up on the shores of Dean’s smile, Dean’s laugh, Dean’s eye crinkles and soft freckles._ _

__“What do you need, sweetheart?” Dean murmurs, rocking gently against Castiel. His erection is strong but Castiel’s has flagged slightly, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he pulls away so he can start running his hands all over the other man’s body in a lover’s massage._ _

__“You,” Castiel says, his voice coming out thick and gruff. “I need you.”_ _

__“You got me,” Dean says, peppering soft, tender kisses all over Castiel’s face. “I’ll take care of you.”_ _

__Castiel believes him._ _

__He believes him wholly and fully._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this roller coaster's about to go down.  
> i'm working on a playlist. would y'all be interested?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **disclaimer:** the injuries described in this chapter are as best as i can surmise through research. if anything is incorrect please drop me a note and i will fix it.  
> -as we know, their relationship is _not_ healthy. please keep that in mind. (i don't know how you could forget, but i thought i'd remind you due to how this chapter ends). cas's reactions to things might seem off, but that's in relation to his psychology. you can read more about the differences and tells between psychopathy & sociopathy [here](https://psychcentral.com/blog/differences-between-a-psychopath-vs-sociopath/) (this is a very short article that only touches the tip of the iceberg). remember this story is _fictional_ and liberties have been taken for dramatic effect.  
>  **warning:** depression (though cas is a bit too stunted to realize it), suicidal ideations.

💀💀💀

“Novak,” Henriksen knocks on Castiel’s open office door with one hand, his other hand holding his tactical vest. “Need you for a brief.”

Castiel shows no reaction, but that’s how he always is. He nods, shuts down his computer, then stands and straightens his tie. He leaves his office, walks towards the conference room, and arches a brow when he sees Chief Singer sitting at the head of the table, Charlie firing up the projector. Henriksen takes a seat, Castiel next to him, and Charlie turns towards them with a grim smile. 

“The news has caught on to some serial crimes being committed in L.A.,” she starts, using the remote to click through a few images. They’re all headlines from prominent news stations, touting the **CATWOMAN** burglar’s proficiency at not only stealing prized items from displays at auction houses and museums, but also the body count in her wake. “Local police are having a helluva time not only identifying the burglar, but also figuring out where she’s gonna hit next. Her only calling card is… well…” Charlie grimaces, clicking to the next slide and resolutely looking away from the screen, where a body is hung by its ankles in a doorway. “She strikes at night, bypassing all alarms and security systems, and no one knows they’re hit til’ the first employee comes in the next morning and discovers, well, this.” 

Chief Singer turns towards Henriksen and Castiel. “The LAPD has invited us in on the case. All they know is that a woman is committing the crimes. Other than that, they got bupkiss.”

“How do they know it’s a woman?” Castiel asks, turning his gaze back towards the projector where Charlie has turned to the next slide, a still from a news cast.

“They’ve found a few footprints, around size five in women’s,” Charlie says. “Also some of the areas the burglar has gotten into have been _tiny_. Like, either a petite woman or a small child is getting through these chutes and vents. Also, the items they’re stealing are of the feminine kind, and none of them have shown up on any sort of market, so LAPD is assuming that the burglar is keeping them for a personal collection.”

Castiel does his best to bite back a smirk.

Henriksen sighs a bit and stands, rapping his knuckles on the table. “Bradbury, send the files to our phones. Novak,” he turns towards Castiel, whose smile has been wiped away by now, “get your go bag.”

Apparently Henriksen is taking point on this case. Unbothered, Castiel stands, making to follow Charlie and Henriksen out of the conference room, but is stopped by Chief Singer’s voice before he can leave.

“Heard about Winchester.” 

Castiel’s hand rests on the doorframe as he looks back at Chief Singer. He pauses for a moment, as if contemplating, and then finally speaks. “As did I.”

“You don’t feel guilty, do ya?” Chief Singer asks, eyes narrow and brows gruff. “Y’said you concluded your investigation ‘cause he didn’t have no more information for ya and his health was declining. You don’t think his heart attack was related to stress regarding your visits… do you?” 

Curtains up.

Castiel shakes his head slowly, dropping his gaze. “It is… unfortunate that Winchester met his demise, but according to doctors, it was only a matter of time.” He straightens a little, as though he’s resolving to not be bothered by the criminal’s death. “In any case, there were many people upset that the law upheld its stance against the death penalty, so I’m sure they are all breathing a sigh of relief that another monster has been removed from this Earth.”

Chief Singer strokes his beard idly, leaning back in his chair and frowning thoughtfully as he regards Castiel. For a moment, Castiel thinks he sees right through him. Then: “I s’pose so.” He gives a slight shrug. Maybe he _can_ sense something off about Castiel, but he chooses to disregard it as he says, “Still, had to ask. You spent a lot of time with ‘im.” 

Chief Singer is on to _something_ , but Castiel can’t let him know. There’s a tiny knot in his stomach with the man’s icy blue eyes on him. “Time well spent, according to the decline of Crowley’s network,” Castiel says succinctly. 

Chief Singer snorts a laugh. “The job always comes first for you, don’t it?” 

Castiel nods. “Sir.” He leaves the conference room, feeling good about how he skated out of that conversation. Out of everyone that filters in and out of Castiel’s orbit in the office, Chief Singer is the one person that he’s actually had to go out of his way to ensure that he raises no suspicions. It’s been a long time since the man has been in the field, but he’s not Chief by accident. 

He heads to his office and retrieves his go bag, opening it up to make sure it’s packed and ready. Since he had a heads up on Catwoman, being part of The Plan, he’d packed this bag a while ago, knowing he needed enough to cover him for about five or six days. Zipping it up, he drapes his tactical vest over it and then pulls the strap of his duffel over his shoulder, exiting his office and nearly running into Charlie.

“Oh!” She laughs in surprise, then gives him a friendly punch to the shoulder. “Gee whiz, I gotta catch you when you’re running away for a hello? That’s technically a goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Castiel says dryly, though the corners of his mouth quirk.

She rolls her eyes, smiling warmly before her expression tapers off. “But really, I wanted to check on you. After Dean died you just kind of…”

“I can’t talk about that here, Charlie,” he says, schooling his face into something that he hopes resembles remorse. 

“I know, but-” she sighs, then pouts. “You know I’m here for you right? I just don’t want you moping around your dark apartment all alone and surrounded by empty takeout containers.” She drops her voice. “You loved him. And no one knows so no one’s even aware that they should be giving you time to mourn and grieve-”

“Charlie,” Castiel lifts a hand to put it on her shoulder, sending her a soft, fond smile. “It was going to end one way or another. In some aspects this is… better.”

She sniffs. “Ok.” She straightens a little. “But the second you don’t feel that way you let me know and I’ll be over in a flash with like, at _least_ three gallons of ice cream.” 

Feeling something in him crack a little, Castiel pulls Charlie into a hug. Without knowing it she’s been a vibrant, radiant, _non_ toxic part of his life. In a few months he’ll no longer be able to see her smiling face, listen to her nerdy puns, or sit on his couch with her while she tries, very badly, to explain the plot of whatever television show she’s currently into. He’s not going to miss much about this life, but he definitely knows he’s going to miss her.

Pressing a kiss to the top of her red head, Castiel pulls away and lifts a hand to gently knuckle under her chin. “I appreciate you.”

Charlie preens a little, feigning humility. “Aw, shucks Cas. You’re not so bad yourself.” 

“While I’m gone please water my fern.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go kick some ass!” 

“Bradbury!” Chief Singer yells from his office. “Keep it down!” 

“Aye aye, Captain!” She yells back.

 _Yes,_ Castiel thinks, _I will miss this._

💀💀💀

If put on the spot, Castiel Novak wouldn’t be able to remember a single time he cried. When his parents died, he didn’t cry. When he’d graduated university, there hadn’t been tears of happiness - nor when he graduated police academy, been promoted to detective, and then eventually made his way into the FBI. He didn’t cry when he’d been shot (twice) he didn’t cry when he’d been stabbed (five times over three separate occasions); just in general… Castiel has never cried. Maybe gotten a little misty-eyed over a few things, but he’s never let emotion overcome him, never let a tear stray.

When he wakes up from the blackness with a gasp tearing through his ragged throat and pain exploding through every single nerve cell in his body, he thinks he’s going to die. 

Everything went wrong, he’s going to die, and he’s never going to see Dean Winchester again. 

Tears spring in his eyes. It’s an overload of emotional grief and supernova explosions of pain. Even through the hiccuping breaths stuttering through his chest he takes stock of his body from where he’s laid out on the pavement, doing his best to catalogue and compartmentalize, knowing that’s the only way he’ll stay conscious. Help will surely be on the way, and he has four and a half minutes to keep himself alive until EMS can stabilize him.

Both legs are broken. Probably both hips, too, and some spinal damage because he can’t feel anything, _anything_ from the waist down. He can’t move his arms and he can’t turn his head to look.. But he assumes his right shoulder is broken and his left wrist is, too, according to the white hot bursts of pain stringing through those areas. He can feel his ribs rattling and rankling with every short breath and, yes, a few of those are broken, too. His head is splitting, his skull feeling cracked open, though head injuries tend to hurt and bleed way worse than they actually end up being. So that’s at least something to look forward to. 

The night is silent. The car Meg had been driving is off, the engine dead, the door dinging in the quiet blackness of the night. He can only assume that she’s dead. How could she survive a rollover like that?

How is Castiel even alive enough to wonder that? 

The dinging of the car door is annoyingly loud. In this industrial area at two in the morning there are no people milling about, no cars driving by, no bugs to chirp in the trees. 

It’s nothing. 

Nothing but that infernal dinging. 

The irony of the situation causes a delirious chuckle to bubble up, blood and perhaps a tooth bursting from his split lips only to drop back onto his face in a splatter. He spits a few times to get more guck out of his mouth, feeling the wetness slop onto his chest. His chest heaves with breaths, now, little noises of pain leaving his lips as he feels his ribs cutting into his lungs with every inhale and exhale. The puddle of blood he’s lying in cools, growing tacky with time. He wiggles his fingers - he can still do that, thankfully, though it’s a lot slower than he’d like - and bit by bit he gets his left arm to move. His wrist protests greatly, but he grits his teeth (oh, when he does that, he feels that more than one tooth got knocked loose) and pushes through the pain. He bends his arm, gets his elbow on the ground, and hefts himself up. 

It’s torture unlike anything he’s experienced. Every cell in his body screams at him to lie back down and just let the darkness take him over, but he has to see what happened to Meg. He can keep his head up, which is a good sign, though he immediately gets woozy as soon as he gets two inches off the ground. He pauses, letting out a few tormented cries of anguish, the sound bouncing off of building walls and alleys, then works on sitting up more.

When he’s finally up enough to take a look at the SUV Meg had been driving, he realizes that there’s no way she’s alive. No faking that death. The SUV is a crumpled heap of metal, smoke billowing out from under the hood. The driver side door is open, causing the insufferable dinging. And on the ground is Meg, her lifeless eyes meeting Castiel, body covered in blood and broken to shambles. The remains of a sapphire necklace are strewn around her.

It’s only a matter of time before the car blows up. Castiel doesn’t know how long he was out after initial impact, but judging from the amount of smoke blossoming into the air and the scent of gasoline on the wind, it’s only a matter of time. He’s ten yards away from the wreck, and that’s ten yards too close. 

_Ding_  
_Ding_  
_Ding_

Lowering himself gingerly back to the ground, a few more pained sobs leave his lips. When he’s settled he stares up at the sky. In this industrial part of LA the light pollution is atrocious. He can’t see any stars. He’s never really cared to look at the stars before, but suddenly… he wants to see them. He wants to see the Big Dipper, wants to see Orion; he’d like to see the Milky Way. He’s only seen it once, out on a case in rural Virginia, and if he hadn’t had work to do, he could have stared at it all night. As a fairly practical person, Castiel has never found the desire to get lost in something like a starry night. But with his life hanging in the balance, the cosmic balance, he wishes that in his last moments… he could see at least one star.

Instead he sees smog. 

Sirens sound in the distance, steadily getting closer. He closes his eyes, wincing every time he breathes and feels that sharp twinge in his sides. Tires screech, sirens wail, the sound of shouting voices floats into his ears… 

“Agent Novak!” 

Henriksen.

“Novak you sonuvabitch, open your eyes.”

Castiel does.

Henriksen looks more scared than Castiel’s ever seen him. There are tears streaming down his face but he isn’t crying; his jaw is set, his brow is furrowed, and he’s doing the standard protocol of talking to Castiel to keep him awake. 

“EMTs are here now, Novak. You with me? Stay with me.”

Castiel keeps his eyes on Henriksen’s face. He’s been such a good partner. He’s followed Castiel through hellfire without question, done some things off the book that he never talked about again. He’s been a good ally. A good man. A good agent. 

A light shines in Castiel’s eyes. He barely blinks in response, though something tightens behind his sockets. Must be his pupils shrinking. That’s a good sign. 

“Can you talk, man?” Henriksen continues. Castiel can’t shake his head no, but he can make a negative noise in his throat. “Alright man, it’s ok. You’ve done a real bangup job this time, huh?” He tries to joke, though when his gaze drifts down Castiel’s body, he snaps it back up to his face. 

He must really look like shit. 

“Ok man, EMTs are gonna move you to a gurney, ok? It’s gonna hurt a lot.” Castiel’s glad that Henriksen is talking, drowning out the sounds of sirens and the general commotion of first responders. “We’re gonna go on three, ok?” Though it is kind of ridiculous, since Castiel can’t respond. But he understands what Henriksen is doing and even though he can’t say it out loud, he’s thankful. “One, two, three.” 

Castiel actually manages to yell out in pain as he’s transferred onto a gurney. Henriksen is back in his sight in an instant, making shushing sounds.

“Hey man it’s ok, alright? You’re on the gurney, they’re strapping you in. You’re gonna be ok. Hospital’s a ten minute drive, alright? You just gotta hold on for another ten minutes.”

Castiel wonders why, if first responders are so bent on saving lives, the transition from ground-to-gurney-to-ambulance is full of so many bumps and jostles. All it does is make him groan pitifully in pain, an automatic response he can’t bite down. By the time he’s securely inside the ambulance his eyes are closed against the onslaught of LED lights, jaw tight. 

“Alright, here we go Cas. Ten minutes and we’ll be able to fix you up, alright?”

Henriksen’s never called him by his first name before. He must be dying. 

“Chief’s really gonna rip you a new one,” Henriksen again tries to joke, though this one actually lands. “Soon as you can write you know how much paperwork you’re gonna have to fill out? Phew.”

Castiel tries to laugh but it comes up as a burble. The EMT comes into Castiel’s line of sight when he opens his eyes, a kind, young looking Asian man. His name tag reads TRAN. 

“Mr. Novak, when we reach the hospital you’ll be going straight to the OR. Due to the extent of your injuries, we’ll have to put you into a medically induced coma.”

Castiel blinks slowly, hoping that he can convey his understanding. If they can save him, going into a long sleep is nothing to be scared of. 

Nothing to be scared of - not like the moment he realized he might not ever see Dean again. Even just thinking of it now has his heart rate spiking, which Tran notes on the monitor, mistaking it for nerves about going under. 

“You’re going to the best hospital in the city, Mr. Novak. We’re gonna do everything we can, alright?” 

Castiel sighs, which turns into another burbling, messy rattle. Tran swipes a cotton four-by-four between Castiel’s lips to catch more blood and clean out his mouth as best as possible so he can breathe.

“Relax, Cas,” Henriksen says, coming back into view. “I’ma stay by your side as long as I can.” 

Castiel meets his gaze, then closes his eyes.

He tunes out the noise of the ambulance.

As soon as the white noise settles in his head, he hears it.

_Ding_  
_Ding_  
_Ding_

He wasn’t meant to make it.

💀💀💀

The doctors keep Castiel in a medical coma for nine days. On the ninth day when he wakes up, choking on the breathing tube as they pull it out, the first thing he registers is his splitting headache.

The next thing he registers is that he can’t feel anything from the hip down. Able to finally breathe without feeling like glass shards are stabbing his lungs, he looks down his body to where the blanket covers him from the waist down. He’s in a garish hospital patient gown, the blanket draped over him heavy and scratchy-soft. His left arm is in a cast from his first knuckles to his elbow with his thumb and fingers free. His right arm is completely cast, held sturdy and upright with a piece of plaster that wraps around his collarbones and back. There’s something else keeping his neck and head and spine straight. He can’t see, because he can’t push the blanket down, but judging from the weird lump, both legs are in some sort of cast or suppression sleeve. There’s all sorts of wires and tubes hooked up to him. 

The doctors standing by patiently to wait for him to finish waking up include Tran from the ambulance. Taking in a few steady breaths, then clearing his throat to get rid of the phantom sensation of the intubator, he finally speaks.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

“Mr. Novak,” Tran greets. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Dr. Kevin Tran. I’m doing residency here at the hospital. I was in the ambulance that picked you up. Do you remember what happened to you?” 

Castiel relaxes back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I was chasing a suspect. The Catwoman. She got the drop on me. She was going to run me over…” he struggles to recall the details, his memories feeling fuzzy. He remembers headlights coming at him, then he remembers tires squealing over rain-slick pavement, Meg losing control of the SUV… “She lost control. She crashed… and rolled the vehicle, striking me.”

Dr. Tran nods. “When she rolled the vehicle, you got caught up in one of the windows that was rolled down, and she ended up taking you along with the rollover. You were dislodged from the window, and then the SUV hit a light post, disabling the vehicle. She managed to open the door and exit the vehicle, but she died shortly after that from her injuries.” 

Castiel takes in all the information. What a horrid sight that must have been. “My legs… were what got caught in the window?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dr. Tran confirms. “Are you…” he looks awfully young as he licks his lips and looks at Castiel hesitantly. “Are you ready to hear the extent of your injuries?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. He manages to crack a wry smile he doesn’t feel, “I need to start compiling my report for my Chief officer.” 

Dr. Tran manages to give him a wan smile. He picks up the clipboard posted to the foot of Castiel’s bed, starting to read. “Concussion, treated. Fractured humerus, treated. Distal radius fracture, treated. Intracapsular fracture of both the right and left leg, treated. You now have two metal hips. Three broken ribs, treated.” He looks up to Castiel. “We don’t know the extent of your spinal cord injury. We know you can’t feel your legs right now, but we’re hoping with aggressive rehab we can get you walking again. Though, I’m afraid complications of this injury won’t go away even if you manage to walk again.” 

This is a disaster. Castiel was supposed to be able to walk out of the hospital in less than a month. He was supposed to be retired in two. This is unprecedented. He closes his eyes, unable to pinch the bridge of his nose like he usually does, which causes his jaw to tense and his brow to furrow. 

“If I don’t regain function within six months it’s likely I was be paraplegic for the rest of my life, correct?” 

The other doctor, whose name tag reads Dr. Barnes, raises her brow. When she speaks, her voice is like smoke on the water. “Correct, Mr. Novak. I take it we don’t need to talk to you in layman’s terms, considering you didn’t even ask Dr. Tran to dumb down the list of injuries.”

“Med school was my ‘Plan B’,” Castiel replies dryly.

Dr. Tran lets out a nervous laugh. “Well, Mr. Novak. Your body is healthy and strong. In that aspect, rehabilitation - as long as you commit to it - will give you about a seventy percent chance at fully regaining all function. However because of your age, those odds go down a bit.” 

“Do you think it’s feasible for me to rehabilitate enough to be able to use a walker or a cane?” Castiel asks. The thought of being stuck in a wheelchair irks him and makes him greatly uncomfortable. 

“We can’t rule anything out,” Dr. Barnes says kindly, but firmly. “You seem like a very driven man, Mr. Novak. Your willingness to cooperate in your rehabilitation and your commitment to getting better are going to factor in to your recovery.” Her head tilts slightly. “Is your goal to return to the FBI?”

Castiel returns his gaze to the ceiling. “If I can, that would be ideal. But if I can’t… I suppose I could retire to some place… tropical.” 

“Goals are good to have,” Dr. Barnes says, satisfied. “They’re the light at the end of the tunnel.”

Dr. Tran puts the clipboard back on the hook at the foot of Castiel’s bed. “I’ve heard Hvar is a beautiful place to retire if you want to get a taste of the tropics but still want to work with your hands.” 

_Ding_

Castiel meets Dr. Tran’s eyes, suddenly seeing the young man in a new light. He sends Castiel a secretive smile and then follows Dr. Barnes out of the room. 

Staring up at the ceiling again, Castiel feels an elated smile tug at his lips. 

He was meant to make it, after all.

💀💀💀

Rehab is brutal. Castiel isn’t one to complain about pretty much anything, and though he doesn’t voice any of his thoughts and struggles out loud, he curses out Dr. Barnes in his mind any chance he’s not focused on completing a task or working through the aches and pains. He’s been in the hospital for two months; both casts on his arms have been removed, but his legs stay in braces and his rehab is conducted from the (un)comfort of his bed. Dr. Barnes comes in with a contraption every single day to help stretch and work his legs, and on her days off Dr. Tran comes in and helps him with a cheerful smile. They’re quite different, personality-wise, but when he comes down to the medical side of things Castiel can see why Dr. Barnes as Dr. Tran as her resident.

They’re both stubborn.

Perhaps more stubborn than Castiel.

And that’s saying something.

The strange device is comprised of pulleys and straps and braces. Every day Castiel’s legs get strapped in one at a time. It starts off easy enough, because he can’t feel anything, but suddenly one day a spike of pain shoots up his side from his hip to his ribs and when he grunts in pain he and Dr. Barnes meet eyes, shocked. She smiles, letting out a, “That’s good!”, while Castiel does his best to put a lid on his emotions. 

Dr. Barnes and Dr. Tran might be stubborn, but Castiel could give them a run for their money, and if his body thinks that it can stay out of commission, it’s got another thing coming.

Four months has Castiel feeling sensation in both hips and his entire pelvic region. Close on the heels is month five, where he’s able to wiggle his toes. Halfway through month six his ankles rotate. The beginning of month seven he can use the contraption to bend his knees and Castiel lets a few tears slip, relief flooding through him like a cool drink of water. His arms and hands are fully functioning now, able to maneuver the contraption on his own while the doctors keep a watchful eye on him. Month eight, he gets moved to a rehab facility. Dr. Tran follows him on special orders, though Castiel knows why he’s there _really_.

Halfway through month eight, in the pool, Castiel stands for the first time on shaky legs. Month nine he starts water aerobics, though he sits in the shallow end so he can mostly use his arms and torso, but on days he’s feeling strong he goes a few feet deeper so he can move his legs around as well. 

The entire time, Castiel has his goal in clear sights. 

When he closes his eyes he can see Dean.

At night when he shuts out all the noise he can hear Dean.

When he falls asleep, he can touch, taste, _feel_ Dean. 

A year after the accident, when Castiel takes his first steps with a walker, he thinks to himself, _I was meant to make it._

💀💀💀

Castiel has nightmares. Not that he didn’t suffer from them before, because he did regularly, which lent to his occasional insomnia, but they’ve shifted. He dreams about the SUV coming after him, bits and pieces of his memory slotting into place. He sees Meg’s terrified face through the window as his legs get caught up in it, hears her screams of terror as the SUV catapults them through the air like pages on a rolodex. He hears the exact moment her screams cut off and are replaced with the soft dinging of the door.

He has nightmares about being confined to a wheelchair. He has nightmares that he just doesn’t have legs at all, amputated at the hips. He has nightmares that his legs get replaced with a bionic version, heavy and metal and artificial. He has nightmares that he never makes it to Croatia, nightmares that he dies in some horrific accident - a plane crash, a car crash, being mugged and murdered on the street. 

The only thing that cuts through his nightmares is Dean. His nightmares drift away like storm clouds on a sunny day and when the sun shines it’s _Dean_ with his radiant smile, dappled freckles and ginger lashes. In his nightmares when he’s in a wheelchair, Dean pushes him through colorful crowds in street markets. In his dreams when he’s an amputee Dean carries him from the bed to the bathtub, joining him for a wash. In his dreams when he has bionic legs Dean treats them no different, kisses them like he kisses the rest of his body, mouths over the gnarly scars where they join his flesh lovingly and laces his fingers with Castiel’s. In his dreams Dean twists the nightmares into something beautiful. 

Castiel likes those dreams.

Naturally, he hasn’t heard from Dean. But he knows Dr. Tran is part of Dean’s vast network, given the Hvar comment, so he’s positive that Dean is being kept in the loop on how he’s doing. He’s sure that Dean isn’t worrying about the delay in their plan. It keeps him peaceful, knowing that Dr. Tran is on their side and helping to rehabilitate him. 

Armed with his walker and deemed relatively fit to lead a relatively normal life, Castiel is able to move back into his apartment. Charlie brings him a gift basket and ends up staying the entire weekend with him. He gets a call from Chief Singer saying that as a retirement gift Henriksen handled all the paperwork for the incident, along with a congratulations on a job well served, and by the way, the award ceremony is next Saturday so don’t be late, you idjit. Castiel’s not sure how he feels about being awarded any sort of medals, but he’s still obligated to be the dedicated and steadfast FBI agent that the bureau has come to know.

Saturday comes quicker than expected. He’s awkward on stage next to the podium where Chief Singer compliments his work ethic, his bravery, and even makes a few riffs on Castiel’s propensity to go… ‘off the book’. Everything is met with good humor. There are so many people in attendance, even local news crews at the back of the room. Agents that Castiel had only seen in passing fill the seats, Charlie and Henriksen at the front, of course. 

Castiel Novak is awarded the Medal for Meritorious Achievement for dislodging Crowley’s gang ring and completely dissolving the criminals within. Crowley was the biggest crime lord since Al Capone, and will go down in history… as will Castiel, for being the one to take him down.

Castiel Novak is awarded the Medal of Valor for not only putting himself at risk in order to apprehend criminals, but also for putting himself at risk to save the lives of the innocent. The man known as ‘Alpha’ was put behind bars because of Castiel, and in direct response to Castiel’s intel, his human trafficking farm was raided and cleansed, dozens and dozens of young girls being brought into safety and helped to reintegrate back into society. 

Castiel has to be seated during Chief Singer’s speech. Usually the recipient of the awards stands at attention, ready for the Chief to present them with the awards, but Castiel is still a ways away from standing on his own. When Chief Singer finishes his speech and turns a warm, almost fatherly smile to Castiel, he puts his hands on the arms of his walker and stands up stiffly. 

Push, shuffle shuffle. 

Push, shuffle shuffle. 

People applaud while Castiel makes his way to the podium. Chief Singer moves out of the way, Castiel stands at the mic and stares out at the crowd of people he doesn’t know, and never really cared to know. He knows he’s supposed to give a speech - he has one prepared - but it’s the last thing he wants to do.

But he must. 

And then he’ll be free. 

“Thank you.” The applause quiets, Castiel doing his best to not tremble as he keeps his hands on the arms of his walker. It leaves him hunched over a bit, which is fine because Chief Singer is shorter than him and had the mic stand adjusted. “When I joined law enforcement, I did it because I had a strong sense of justice, and wanted desperately to put away those who deserved it. In every job I’ve held, from police cadet all the way to Supervisory Special Agent, I’ve done my best to do right by the law and vanquish evil from the streets.” The crowd hangs on every word; so many of his colleagues have never heard him grunt more than two words at a time. 

Licking his lips, he continues, willing his body to cooperate with him. “I knew that this would be the career I have either until I retired, or it killed me. Apparently, both had to happen at the same time.” That gets a little chuckle from the crowd. Good. “I’ve put everything I have into my job because I love it, though some of you would be surprised to learn that I can feel any emotion at all.” Another chuckle, this time a bit sheepish. Castiel offers a small, quirked smile. “I am honored to have served and saved lives with this bureau and every agency I have worked with before. I am honored to receive these medals, and I am honored to retire knowing I have given my all to do my best to make the country a safer place.” His knuckles turn white, his body starting to tremble with the effort to keep himself upright. 

“Thank you for honoring me, even though I might have stared at you to death when you didn’t put enough coffee grounds in the coffee maker,” A man snorts in the back row, “or even though I went out of my way to tell you where the paper towels are kept to stock in the bathroom.” A woman lets out a shrieky, surprised giggle. Castiel softens his smile, even though his body is on fire. “Thank you for honoring me.” 

He pulls away from the microphone, knees weak. Chief Singer is there quickly but casually, slinging an arm under Castiel’s right arm to keep him upright. The crowd is applauding, cameras flashing, people cheering. Chief Singer waits for Castiel to adjust his walker and then together they exit the stage, Chief Singer basically carrying Castiel down the steps at the back where no one can see. Using his foot to pull over a chair, he helps Castiel sit down, pulling a brochure out of his back pocket and using it to fan Castiel’s sweaty features.

“Atta boy. Y’did good.” 

Castiel pulls a kerchief out of the breast pocket of his blazer, mopping the perspiration off of his face. He takes a few calming breaths, leans back into the chair, and then nods. “Thank you, Sir.” 

“Shoot, boy,” Chief Singer waves a hand, putting the brochure back in his pocket. “You ain’t my subordinate anymore. Hell, with awards like that, you should be tellin’ _me_ what to do.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Now I’m just Bobby. An’ you’re just Castiel.”

Something in Castiel… aches? What is this feeling? He looks up at Bobby and fully takes in the fatherly smile on his features, the glint in his eyes; Charlie and Henriksen come around the corner, Charlie bending to wrap Castiel up in a tight hug and pepper kisses to his messy hair. Henriksen has his hands in his pockets but he’s grinning, looking on fondly. 

This feeling. Castiel looks between these people in front of him, these people who… care for him? These people who have supported him even through his most anti-social moments, even through his most psychotic breakthroughs, even through his pacing and gun range visits and his bulletin board with all his red strings. 

Oh.

Oh, this feeling.

It’s _guilt_.

Castiel’s chest feels heavy and light at the same time. His chest compresses, his breath stops, his eyes burn. 

Oh, _no_.

“Aw, Cas,” Charlie pulls back, thumbing gently under his eyes and ruffling his hair. “Want me to keep you company tonight? Movie marathon and junk food?”

Castiel shakes his head, though what comes out of his mouth is, “Yes.” 

He shakes Bobby’s hand in a daze, makes an empty promise to stay in touch. He does the same to Henriksen, though when he stands he’s surprised the man pulls him into a hug. Charlie stays by his side as he uses his walker to push, shuffle shuffle his way out of the room and to the elevators. He’s been taking public transit everywhere, driving not impossible but very tiring when he has to do a lot of it or go long distances. Charlie rambles on about this and that as they take the elevator down to the parking garage, her waiting for him to get into the passenger seat of her tiny Gremlin while she expertly folds up his walker and puts it in the trunk. He’s quiet as she continues rambling, quiet when they get to his home, quiet as she helps him through the front door. 

As he sits down on his couch, letting Charlie do as she pleases, he sinks into the cushions and wraps a blanket around himself. 

Even though he’s been out of the rehab facility and back home, he hasn’t heard from Dean. Or even Sam. He has no clue what’s going on at the other end.

He was meant to make it.

But what was he meant _for_?

💀💀💀

In the bath, Castiel reclines against a soft pillow. It’s hot, the mirror covered in steam. It’s fragrant, matcha crystals dissolving and mimosa flowers floating along the surface. There are no bubbles. He has a clear sight of the garish patchwork of his legs. The stitches and staples have long come out, but there’s nothing left to the imagination. From his ribs all the way down to his knees on either side is a zig-zagging path, like someone told a toddler to draw a straight line without a ruler. The skin is puckered in some places, light in some and dark in others.

It’s ugly. 

Castiel’s once strong, thick thighs and round calves are now emaciated. He can do some exercises with his legs, but most of it is resistance training. He’ll never be able to jog again, never be able to do a marathon again. Probably won’t be able to do any sort of weights. His legs, though he is able to walk and stand and do a lot more than the doctors initially thought, are done for. 

It’s been a year and a half since the accident. His fortieth birthday came and went with Charlie and Henriksen taking him out to a bar, though Castiel doesn’t drink alcohol, and giving him plenty of entertainment with their drunken antics. Then life continued on, peppered with visits from Charlie, while Castiel just sort of… drifted.

Dean’s been gone for two years. Castiel’s forty-first birthday is tomorrow. He does his best to stay active but when he retired he soon found out he doesn’t… have any hobbies. Any healthy ones, anyway. He can’t go for runs, which he usually did to clear his head and give him a boost. He’s always been a cook, mostly out of necessity, so trying new things in the kitchen don’t appeal to him. He stays away from baked goods and learning how to make them because his body is a slippery slope and if he gets any more softer he thinks he’ll go mad. Idle things like reading or listening to podcasts get boring.

God forbid, he ordered a book on how to crochet as well as everything a beginner needs to learn. 

(He made a very elegant doily, though. He’s just not sure if he wants to be the type of retiree that _crochets_.)

He’s bored.

He’s lonely.

And as he sits here in the bathtub staring at his mess of a body, he wonders what the point is. He’s never given too much thought about living or dying. That could be why he always threw himself into dangerous situations, just figuring he would come out on top. He always played to win. And when the accident happened and he woke up on the bloody pavement, even when he thought he was going to die, he would have gone in peace, because if he lived, he’d go to Dean, and if he died, he’d at least die on his way to Dean. 

Dean.

Castiel’s gaze slides to the ledge of the tub where his Ruger Wrangler sits, loaded with one bullet. It’s his favorite gun to play with. He loves going target practicing with it, testing his dexterity and skill when it comes to loading and reloading the six-bullet chamber. It’s lightweight and beautiful, easy to conceal in his shoulder holsters, and equally easy to pull out in a pinch. The steam of the tub condensates on the bronze barrel. He thinks Dean would like this gun. It’s very ‘wild west’. 

Dean. 

Lifting his hand, Castiel picks up the gun. Muscle memory kicks in, and not even the wetness of his fingers prevents him from handling it with love and care. He points the gun at his left foot, then the right. He changes the angle of his wrist, pointing it at his shins. He bends his elbow and puts the butt of the gun against his chest, staring down the sight at the ugly scars on his legs.

A mimosa flower floats into his sight, passing by the barrel lazily. Castiel tracks the flower with the gun, then stops when the flower floats past his left knee. 

He’s never thought about suicide in the ‘I want to kill myself’ sort of way. He’s thought of suicide from a clinical and professional view, like unsubs who want to die by cop, but he’s never personally thought about killing himself. Occasionally he’d try to imagine what it’d be like to die, but that’s mostly to keep him grounded when he becomes too unhinged. Imagining blackness, nothingness, imagining how it might feel to take his last breath. 

A mimosa flower passes back into sight range. 

He puts the gun back on the ledge. 

If he killed himself in the bathtub he’d just be another sorry statistic of law enforcement that retired because of injury on the job. 

Castiel Novak is not a statistic. 

He reaches for the gun, expertly clicking the barrel open and letting the bullet fall into the bath water, _sploosh_ , cold where it slides against the outside of his thigh before settling on the bottom of the tub. He tosses the gun onto the bathroom floor, listening to it skitter away towards the door. He reclines in the bathtub, putting his elbows on either side, trailing his fingers through the water, feeling the silky softness of the mimosa petals kissing his fingers. His eyes close. 

After five moments of blessed silence, his phone rings. 

The phone that Sam had given him.

The phone he keeps next to his own cell phone at all times.

Blue eyes open, pupils shrinking in the soft light of the bathroom. 

Mimosa flowers stick to Castiel’s body as he hoists himself out of the tub, his arm muscles stronger and thicker than before due to how much he uses them.

Water sluices down tan skin, droplets trailing the paths of jagged scars. 

Elegant fingers pick up the phone off of the bathroom vanity. Mimosa petals fall onto the counter, wet and fragrant. 

“Novak.”

A beat of silence, and then like the sun parting clouds on a gloomy day, Dean’s voice says, “Miss me?”

💀💀💀


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another reminder that i've never written extensively about severe injuries and the aftermath.  
> i've done my best to use correct terms and vocab words but if anything is wrong,  
> please let me know and i will fix it.  
> (though Dean does at one point call Castiel "cripple" off-camera, which Castiel swiftly corrects)  
> also i've never been to croatia, but after doing all this research, who wants to go with me?

✨✨✨

Traveling is, suddenly, a pain. Castiel used to not care about carry-ons versus checked bags, which seat he got on the airplane, how many stops he had between then and there, but now that he is… disabled (and yes, he has sort of come to terms with that fact), things are much different. For instance, he has to _call ahead_ to his airline to let them know he will be traveling with a wheelchair. As if he can’t navigate his own way around, apparently strangers think he needs _help_.

He doesn’t.

They should be aware he knows at least seven different ways to kill someone with a doily. (Although, this isn’t a skill he picked up until he started crocheting them himself)

Benny calls Castiel a week before his departure date, which is a surprise on one hand, and then again, not at all on the other. Benny’s gruff greeting is that he has instructions from Dean to help Castiel get his things together and get him off to the airport, and while Castiel has a gut reaction to feel insulted, part of him softens because… Benny’s still one of the good ones. This act of service may very well be the last thing he ever does for Dean Winchester. Castiel can support him in that.

Even at his own expense.

Together they go through all of Castiel’s personal effects and discover he’s not attached to very much. He really only cares about clothes, but he _does_ have to painstakingly sort through all his books to decide which ones he _has_ to have a hard copy of (he can get all of his books on audio, but there’s nothing like holding a classic in one’s hands). Neither of them say anything when Castiel packs his crochet needles and a few bundles of yarn. Benny helps him all the way through and mentions that since Castiel has to check his luggage anyway, he may as well try to get just under the weight limit in books and clothes and “whatever else you fancy, brother”. 

In a bag that can be hung on his wheelchair goes his passport, I.D., badge (out of habit, and he’s not afraid to flash his veteran status for perks, as it turns out), and a new, untraceable cell phone that Benny brought. A change of clothes, a change of shoes, and then Castiel is ready. 

Benny takes Castiel to the airport. He rolls his luggage while Castiel wheels himself into the airport, gritting his teeth at all the sympathetic looks he gets. He knows he’s not the average person in a wheelchair. As far as people can tell, he looks totally normal. And he _almost_ is, save for the fact he can’t do anything long distance without nearly collapsing in pain and exhaustion. Sympathy is annoying and unwanted. 

Then again, people think they’re doing some sort of silent good when they acknowledge a disabled person, offering a coo here and a pardon there. And what’s to say about all the people who _can_ walk but are disabled? They get nothing unless they ask for it and even then, a good samaritan might wonder what a ‘perfectly normal’ person needs help with. It’s a fucked up universe.

If Castiel didn’t hate people on principle already, his affect towards them has plummeted. 

His mailman rang the door last week instead of leaving his mail in his box. He’s lucky to be alive, quite frankly.

Benny gets his luggage checked and walks next to the wheelchair as they navigate through the crowd to the security gate. By now Castiel can maneuver any chair with ease, his strong arms and dexterous fingers lending to his grace. When they’re stopped in line, Benny turns down to Castiel, resting a hand on the handle of the wheelchair in an aborted attempt at some sort of comfort.

Benny’s smart.

“Well, brother, I suspect this’ll be the last we see of each other.”

Castiel meets Benny’s gaze. He used to be able to meet him head on. Now he’s about at Benny’s waist and while most people tend to treat him like a toddler, Benny puts up with his shit and gives it back tenfold. Benny treats him like he always has, even when he was upright and pissed off. (Now he’s just waist-height and pissed off, though no less deadly. Maybe. He’s yet to test that theory.) “What will you do?” 

“Got me a job as a beat cop,” Benny says with a small smile, ruffling his beard idly. “There’s an awfully pretty lady at my precinct. Think I’ll dip my toes back in the water.” 

Letting out an even breath, Castiel does his best to square his posture in the chair. How can he express his gratitude towards this man? Benny helped Dean when no one else would, Benny helped Castiel on a few occasions as well. Benny was Dean’s link to the outside world and without him… Without him, Castiel wouldn’t be here, alive, on his way to have some paradise-level retreat with whom he grudgingly considers the love of his life. “You’re one of the best lawmen I’ve ever met, Benjamin. You’ll find your way.” 

“An honor to hear that from you,” Benny chuckles, gently patting Castiel on the shoulder and giving a squeeze, clearly giving in to his need for physical touch. He and Dean aren’t so different, sometimes. “Go to your beau, now. After all this… ‘bout time both of you retire.” 

“Thank you, Benny,” Castiel says with genuine honesty this time. 

Benny tips his hat, taking a step back. Castiel settles in his chair and makes his way through the line where the airport employees guide him, not chancing a look back.

There is no looking back, now.

Getting through security isn’t that much of a hassle. As he rolls down the busy terminals a go-cart zooms past him and then backs up, a jovial older man asking Castiel if he needs a ride. Castiel declines, to which the man arches a brow, but Castiel’s glare hasn’t withered one single bit, so he takes off. Boarding the plane is its own circus, and for once in his life, Castiel is miffed that he has an aisle seat. It’s for his safety and also so the flight attendants can help him quickly, but it’s overall annoying. 

The first and only stop is Frankfurt. He has a two hour layover, which he starts off by finding the closest pub to his next terminal and posting up. He parks his wheelchair at a table, surprises the waiter by ordering in German, and then spends the next hour and a half eating a salad and sipping a non-alcoholic beer. He wheels his way to the restroom, takes care of that business (and resolutely ignores the pitying stares from the men at the urinals, though he does wish he had the strength for an easy piss), and by the time he’s on his next plane he’s about ready to show the word that Retired Supervisory Special Agent Castiel Novak is in a wheelchair but can still kick ass ten ways from Sunday. 

Thank everything holy that the next plane is nearly empty, travel to Split at this time of year virtually nonexistent. As he gets settled in his seat he turns up the charm and asks the flight attendant if he can move to the window seat after takeoff; she blushes and giggles, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear as she agrees. His legs might only be functional seventy percent of the time but his salt n’ pepper beard, hooded blue eyes, and smile (after the accident he’d had some veneers neatly placed in the spots where his own were missing and, not that he’s a super vain man, they actually look very nice and natural) tend to do the trick on younger women.

Pleased that he still could pull that off, Castiel stays buckled during takeoff, and once the pilot announces altitude, he unbuckles and shuffles his way over to the window seat. 

At first it’s boring. Lots and lots of land and cloud cover. He dozes off while listening to an audio book, a scratchy airplane blanket wrapped around him, feeling rather old when he wakes up twenty minutes later and smacks his lips, tasting the sleep on them. He requests water then sits back, glancing out of the window just in time to see the beautiful Adriatic sea and the coastline of Croatia. He’s glad he requested to sit in the window seat. He presses his temple against the wall of the airplane, watching the country and sea sprawl out in front of him, feeling a bit of the tension bleeding away from his body.

This is his new home. 

Castiel isn’t a very poetic person. He’s not as black and white as he used to be, but he still tends to think in straight lines. Nature has always just been nature. A place for him to jog and exercise, but not a place to picnic. A place to chase after unsubs who flee into the night, but not a place to hold hands with someone. He’s never felt any sort of attachment to any sort of greenery or land, especially for the past years that he’s been visiting his only ray of sunshine in a ten by ten concrete cell. He’s never really felt the need for it.

But this… seeing where the sea meets the land, watching the water swell and recede, taking in the way the trees are broken up by stone villages that don’t detract from the nature surrounding him - this is different. It might be the implications of new beginnings (yes, he’s been practicing yoga) that have his heart picking up speed against his ribs. It might be the anticipation of seeing Dean after two long years of fighting for his life, his recovery, his body and his sanity. 

In a life of black and white and straight lines, as the plane circles over the airport in Split, Castiel is starting to see blue, green, turquoise… when the only colors he could see before were green, ginger, and gold.

He gets back into his seat in time for landing. The blonde flight attendant takes his blanket and his empty cup and sends him a warm smile, something genuine - probably the first genuine expression he’s seen on someone’s face since Benny left him. The landing is easy; all other passengers deplane and then it’s Castiel’s turn. He uses the arm of a male flight attendant to walk to the front of the plane where there’s an airport wheelchair waiting for him, and honestly, he’s so tired of sitting, but he’s also just feeling generally tired from travel. He told himself he would sleep on the long leg, but apparently ‘antsy’ is a new emotion he’s starting to feel. Another attendant helps get Castiel’s luggage from baggage claim, escorting him outside, where Castiel assures him that someone will be around to pick him up shortly. The attendant hangs around, though, likely with the intent to take the airport wheelchair once Castiel vacates it. 

Left alone with the busy buzz of people picking up loved ones, Castiel lets out a breath, collecting his mood and his temperament. Just because he’s frazzled from traveling doesn’t mean he needs to take it out on the people around him. It’s something he’s been practicing lately: mindfulness. It’s weird. He doesn’t like it most of the time but his “therapist” insisted that it be something he tries to incorporate into his routine. He usually does it while bending into complicated yoga poses (who knew he was so flexible?) but taking a moment to do it out here, with the salt in the air and the soft chatter of foreign languages around him… it’s fairly easy.

After five minutes a yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulls up and from its small carriage emerges gigantic Sam Winchester. He’s smiling broadly, an expression Castiel has yet to see on his features - it suits him well - like he’s actually, truly happy to see the other man. He walks around the car to pop open the trunk (at the front) and pulls out a folded contraption that Castiel recognizes as a wheelchair. It looks nearly brand new, he notes with surprise, and as Sam wheels it towards him, he sees that Dean has already gotten his hands on it. 

C+D is written in white paint inside a pink heart on the inside of the chair back. The date they met is on the opposite corner. There are _purple tassels_ hanging from the handles. But as Sam maneuvers it to get it close enough to Castiel, he sees partially what’s on the back.

“Sam,” Castiel stops him from coming closer. “May I see the back?” 

Sam’s expression softens into something like fondness. He’s golden from the Adriatic sun, his hair with blond highlights. “Sure.”

Angel wings.

In beautiful, vivid detail, painted in blues and purples and greens and pinks, are angel wings on the back of the chair. They aren’t cheesy like the art that Castiel’s back will cover when he sits in it; these wings look like they’ve been professionally painted on, placed where everyone is meant to see them. He reaches out with a finger to trace over them- the color has melted into the fabric of the chair, permanent and unbreakable. They’re stunning. 

Clenching his jaw, he nods at Sam, ignoring his wet puppy eyes. “Your arm, please.”

Sam holds out his elbow, which Castiel grabs with one hand to help heave himself up. Sam uses his foot to set the brakes on the wheelchair, Castiel goes in it seamlessly, and then the airport worker whisks away the other wheelchair without making a peep. 

“Feel good?” Sam asks. 

Castiel shifts around in the chair. It _is_ quite nice. It has much more padding than the one at home did, and the foot rests are at a different height and angle that are quite appealing. Catching Sam watching him admire the chair, Castiel says dryly, “It’ll do.” 

Sam chuckles. He must finally be comfortable with Castiel now; he can sense the younger Winchester’s guard almost completely down. He wheels Castiel to the car, opens the passenger door, and doesn’t move to help Castiel get in. He gets it. Thank God. Once Castiel is inside the car and the wheelchair and his luggage are all put away Sam magically folds himself into the driver’s seat, taking off down the road. 

“The ferry will take us to Stari Grad,” Sam says as the little bug bumbles along. 

“Thank you for picking me up,” Castiel says. “If another employee asked me if I needed help I may have killed someone.”

“Good thing you weren’t allowed to travel with a gun,” Sam jokes.

“Who said anything about using a gun?” Castiel says airily, looking out the window at the passing scenery. 

Sam gives a slightly uncomfortable chuckle and then falls silent, letting Castiel take in the scenery in peace.

Castiel has been to many places across the globe. Pretty much always for work, never for leisure. He’s never been to Croatia, though; it reminds him a little of Italy, maybe even Greece, with its stone houses and cobbled roads and romantic vineyard horizons. Once they load the ferry he does accept Sam’s help out of the car, nearly kissing the Winchester in thanks when he sees he also packed a new walker for him. Stretching his legs is a new pleasure after being wheelchair bound for so long, and Sam’s innate knowledge of what Castiel needs and when is very indicative of his brother’s fine teachings. Castiel can imagine Dean sitting Sam down and telling him the ‘do’s and don’ts’ of Castiel Novak. 

The handles of this walker also have tassels. 

They find a seat at the top of the ferry with the wind in their hair and the sun on their skin. The air is so clear and fresh it almost hurts to inhale. Castiel has to squint against everything, wishing he hadn’t left his sunglasses in his bag, but this way he gets an unfiltered view of everything. Sam appreciates silence as well, so they sit quietly, listening to people chatter around them, the birds crowing and cawing whenever they manage to land. He stretches his legs out in front of him as far as they can go, his toes curling inside his shoes. No matter what, airplane seats are too crowded. He could have no legs and still feel the need to stretch out.

And yet, already, Castiel feels… peaceful. Like a switch has been flipped as soon as he got off the plane.

A long way from how he felt before Dean called him last month. 

Ten minutes before the ferry is to land there’s an announcement over the speakers for drivers to return to their cars. They do so, Castiel garnering some odd looks as he does some lunges with his walker, but the stretch feels _so nice_ on his achy and sore limbs. He’s about another sit away from full blown pain, so he’s getting in his stretches while he can. He and Sam get back into the beetle and wait for the signal to get off the ferry; once in town Sam finally does a little talking, pointing at restaurants and cafes and older historical buildings. The scent of lavender wafts into their rolled down windows, filling the car with aromatic and crisp notes. They get off of the main, cobbled roads and turn onto a dirt road, driving on it for about ten minutes, before turning onto another, newer looking dirt road. 

Castiel eyes his surroundings carefully. “This road is new.” You can take a man out of the FBI, but you can’t take the FBI out of the man. 

“Dean’s hiding in plain sight,” Sam says. “This road doesn’t show up on satellites, and neither does the house or beach he set up. Locals can wander here and there but he’s pretty deep into the trees and so far hasn’t had any unexpected visitors. This is the Western-most point of Stari Grad.”

“Ash set it up?” Castiel guesses, raising a brow. 

“Yeah,” Sam confirms. “Dean wanted paradise in a place that can be a bit of a tourist hotspot, so Ash made it possible.” 

“Remind me to be thankful that Ash is on our side,” Castiel mutters. 

“Trust me- his ego is so big, he knows,” Sam says wryly.

Another fifteen minutes into a deep grove, the road finally opens up to a plot of land with a traditional-style stone house on it. Castiel knows it’s all brand new, because the house looks incredibly square and upright, and the stone is sanded down. It’s also one story, he notes, whereas the houses in town are either two to three. The roof is also impeccable, painted a pastel orange. There’s a detached wood building that he can assume is a shop or garage, the barn doors currently closed and padlocked. 

Sam parks the car, the only one in sight Castiel notes, and gets out to pop the trunk and start gathering Castiel’s things. He puts the wheelchair next to the passenger side when Castiel opens the door, then lumbers into the house with basically all of Castiel’s stuff. Castiel hangs his folded up walker on the back of the wheelchair and then sits down, looking down at the driveway. It’s all packed dirt, wetted down and packed over and over again to provide a smooth surface. From their trip through town, Castiel knows that all the streets and alleyways are cobblestone, and there’s no way he’d get across any of it in his wheelchair _or_ walker.

This, though. 

This.

He wheels towards the front door of the house, which is easily twice the size of a regular front door. Getting over the threshold and through the frame is easy. Inside the house the walls are sheetrocked and finished, painted a nice, light heather grey, with tasteful art decorating them. Probably stolen, knowing Dean. The furniture in the living room is simple; a beige cloth couch with a few throw pillows and a cozy looking blanket, a recliner which already looks well-worn, and a tv stand with a moderately sized flatscreen on it. Glancing across the living room he sees one entire wall of just… books. Shelves upon shelves of books. 

He continues across the wood floors. He hears Sam putting his stuff somewhere, and when he pulls up to another large doorway he finds Sam in a bedroom, putting his suitcase on the bed and unzipping it for him. The bedroom is also sparse, the bed loaded with blankets and pillows and heavenly looking, and there are more shelves filled with books, as well as a very large set of windows opposite of the bed that have a beautiful view of the sea. 

“Let’s finish the tour,” Sam says. 

Castiel follows. 

The kitchen is also moderately sized, with updated appliances and a table perfect for two. Every area of the house is large enough for Castiel to navigate with either his chair or walker. French doors with no screen lead out to the back patio, which has pavers laid down for a solid surface, but once again, they’ve been sanded and finished to ensure easy traveling. There’s a huge table that could fit about eight, looking hand-carved, with matching benches on either side. There’s a few lounge chairs as well, also handmade, and then steps alongside a ramp that goes down towards a grassy patch. 

“So, that ramp leads down to the grass,” Sam says, “and then from there it’s only about five yards to the beach. It’s kinda downhill, though, so I think Dean is brainstorming how to make sure you won’t fly off the end and go directly into the water.” 

Something inside Castiel swells. All this time he’s managed to stay… clinical about everything, treat it as any other new thing in his life, but seeing all these personal touches from Dean - from making everything wheelchair accessible but also to making sure that the place is comfortable and chic and everything Castiel has ever wanted in a house - it… blooms. 

Oh. 

“Anyway, Dean wanted to meet you alone, so I’m gonna get out of here before, uh, you know,” Sam laughs a little, reaching to squeeze Castiel’s shoulder warmly.

Castiel jerks a hand up, catching Sam’s hand before he can pull away. His reflexes are quick and startle the younger Winchester, Sam tensing visibly, his whole frame going stock still.

“Sam,” Castiel says, his voice soft. “Thank you.”

Sam relaxes and rolls his eyes a little, though he smiles and gives Castiel’s shoulder another squeeze. “Anything for family.” 

And then he leaves. 

So Castiel waits. 

After ten minutes he hears the rumble of some sort of motorbike park out front. His heart rate spikes minutely, but he forces himself to stay in his chair, facing the beautiful scene of the sea just ten yards in front of him. At this slight vantage point he can see the waves lapping gently at the manmade shore, can see two adirondack chairs perked at the exact angle the sun will rise. He can smell the lavender, he can hear the birds chirping. The peace is tangible, he thinks, like he can reach out and grab it in his hands. 

When Dean walks out the patio doors and slides fingers through his messy hair from behind, Castiel knows this is true, real, tranquility. 

He holds his breath. Dean’s fingers sift out of his hair as he rounds the chair, casting a shadow over Castiel. Castiel tips his head back to look at Dean and then… something inside him breaks and repairs all at once.

Dean is _here_.

He’s not wearing a jumpsuit or scrubs, he doesn’t have handcuffs on any part of his body, he’s not in a concrete cell. He’s wearing a sheer white shirt with only one button done to show off his tan and his sculpted chest. His shorts barely cover his mid-thigh, the material soft looking and powder blue in color. His face… oh, his _face_. His freckles are beautiful, standing out against his tan skin. His eyes are the brightest and clearest Castiel has ever seen them. His hair is almost blond from exposure to the sun. And the smile on his features…

Castiel’s lower lip wobbles. Dean doesn’t move to touch him. Using the arms of his wheelchair for support, Castiel forces himself up on his weak and exhausted legs, ignoring the searing pain as he leverages himself up and falls towards Dean at the same time. 

Dean catches him. 

Dean catches him and holds him like he’ll poof out of existence if he doesn’t squeeze him with all his strength. 

It doesn’t matter that Castiel’s legs are mangled, because Dean catches him and holds him upright like no walker ever could. Castiel’s pretty sure he’s crying, his eyes hot and wet as he buries his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. Both of his arms are thrown over Dean’s shoulders and he knows his toes are just barely touching the ground. In turn one of Dean’s arms slings across his lower back, the other under his armpits, his lips pressing against wherever they can reach on Castiel’s head. 

“You been so good for me,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with emotion that he’s rarely ever shown. He pulls away slightly, allowing Castiel to rest on his aching feet, still keeping him upright as he cradles his jaw and thumbs under Castiel’s eyes, green searching blue. It’s been two years since Castiel has looked into those eyes and for all he knows he’s been gone on Dean Winchester, he can now see the raw emotion in them, fully understand the depth of Dean’s devotion to him. “You been so good for me, baby.” He presses a soft kiss to Castiel’s forehead. “Let me take care of you.” 

Castiel’s entire body goes weak at those words. All these years he’s been in Dean’s service, sometimes unwittingly, most times willingly, and all the time of his own accord; he’s been waiting for Dean to return the favor. Not consciously, of course; but here, now, Dean says the words that Castiel didn’t know he needed to hear. 

“C’mon,” Dean ushers softly. His arm goes back under Castiel’s armpits, drawing him to his side. Their minor height difference lends to his assistance, their bodies slotting perfectly together. He leads Castiel back inside the cottage and straight to the bedroom, gently lying Castiel out on the bed and setting his suitcase aside on the floor. 

The bed _is_ as heavenly as it looks. A perfect mixture of a firm mattress and soft blankets and pillows. Castiel goes boneless as he settles into it. Dean starts pulling off Castiel’s clothes, uncaring that Castiel’s limbs feel like lead and that he can’t lend him any help. He gets Castiel naked and it only registers when Dean is looking over his garish scars that Castiel feels… vulnerable. But he doesn’t have the energy to curl up. 

Dean looks his fill. His eyes and fingers trace over every scar on Castiel’s body. The scar on his shoulder where they had to surgically fix his break. The scars from the cuts on his torso when he was thrown around by a rolling car and had glass repeatedly crunch against his skin. Dean’s beautiful eyes take in all of Castiel’s ugliness, all of the proof of Castiel’s devotion to him. Dean’s palms skate over Castiel’s hips, where two metal ball joints keep his legs attached to his torso. The scars there are the most garish- the scars there are Castiel’s only weakness in vanity. They zigzag like a rural road in the countryside, some areas still puckered, some skin inflamed, some skin totally healed and white against his own natural tan. 

Dean takes it all in.

And then Dean bends, kissing either of Castiel’s hips with his plush mouth. Each side, a lingering caress with his lips. Then he starts moving his mouth down Castiel’s left leg, tongue trailing across the wretched scar that extends down to his knee. Once he’s done with that journey he starts another on Castiel’s right leg. Wetness springs in Castiel’s eyes but he can’t look away - he _has_ to watch Dean do this, has to confirm that it’s him and that he didn’t die in a plane crash and is in some sort of heaven where Dean is perfect and loves Castiel’s flaws. 

This is the extent, but not the peak, of Castiel’s devotion. These scars. These broken things. 

This is the extent, but not the peak, of Dean’s devotion. His loving touches. His eyes that see no weakness, no breaks; only strength. 

“Shhh, baby,” Dean moves over Castiel to cradle his jaw with one hand, starting to kiss slowly over his features. “You did this for me. You’re so beautiful baby. I love you so much. No matter what.” 

A wet sob escapes Castiel’s lips, his weakened arms coming up to wrap around Dean’s shoulders. “I don’t know-” he steadies his breath, feeling a tear slip from his hot eyes, feeling another moment of weakness seize him. “I don’t know if I can…” 

Dean searches his eyes for a moment before he clicks things into place. Chuckling lightly, Dean gently brushes Castiel’s wild hair away from his forehead so he can press a kiss to the frown lines there. “Cas, baby. Let’s not worry about that right now. This…” he pulls away to lock gazes again. “This is our new life. No bullshit, no cons. Full transparency, you’re gonna know what I’m doing all the time, a’right? Partners.” 

“My body…” Castiel whispers, finally allowing himself to voice the vulnerabilities that sneak past his defenses. 

“Is perfect,” Dean says resolutely, pulling back a bit. “You’re mine, Cas. Every bit of you, every way it is. I know you saw what I did to the house.” Castiel’s heart thump-thumps. “You think I’ll love you any less ‘cause you get weak-kneed occasionally?” He smiles wryly. He’s so beautiful. “You’re a badass, Cas. You might be a little slowed down, but you can still kick my ass. I know it.” 

Feeling some of his tears dry up, the platitudes Dean gives him are… strange, but welcome. Castiel’s not used to receiving platitudes in the first place. He’s always kept a tight lid on his emotions, but he knows he can trust Dean with this side of himself. He’s always been able to, even before he realized what sort of entanglement he was involved in. 

“Listen to me,” Dean says semi-seriously, though there’s still a glimmer in his eyes. The same glimmer that’s always been there since the day they met, though Castiel hadn’t known how to read it. “I got you a sweet lil’ exercise machine. I’m gonna drag your ass to the water daily. I’m gonna force you to walk the market with me without your walker. We’re gonna get you back to rights, Cas, and if we can’t… at least we’re giving it a hell of a try, yeah?”

Tentatively, Castiel nods. He wants to ask why Dean cares so much, why Dean is willing to spend so much of his ‘retirement’ time helping him make his body work correctly, but… it’s all laid out, right here. Dean’s transparency is real for the first time in their relationship. He flew Castiel halfway across the world to start over. No one else in his crew is living here. Castiel has special passage because Castiel…

Oh.

Because Castiel _is_ special. 

He’s not just a pawn.

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice rough and thick. His arms have returned to his sides, exhausted from wheeling himself around and carrying himself for roughly twenty hours, though he yearns to hold this beautiful, dangerous man above him. 

“Yeah babe?” Dean replies, still in his line of sight, still holding him like he’s precious. 

The words almost get stuck behind his fake teeth, but Castiel forces them out. “I love you.” 

Dean _melts_. He rests carefully over Castiel, making sure not to lie down his whole body weight, burying his face into the curve of Castiel’s neck. He can feel that beautiful smile pressed against his skin. The shadows from the afternoon sun shift over the walls and the bed.

“I know.”

✨✨✨

Castiel doesn’t know how long he naps for but when he wakes up, the sun is set and the room is pleasantly cool, the windows open to allow the sea salt-lavender breeze to filter in. He finds himself under the covers, thinking he must have been truly exhausted if Dean could manhandle his sleeping body underneath the comforter without waking him up. Sitting up, he stretches his arms over his head and feels… oddly refreshed. He’s still a little sore, but he feels better. Pushing the covers away from him he sees his new walker by the bed; he eyes the blue tassels hanging from its handles and while Castiel feels a flash of annoyance, it’s overshadowed by the fondness he has for the idiot criminal he’s stupidly fallen for.

His clothes have all been put away, his suitcase out of sight. He opens a few drawers and finds his khaki shorts, not bothering with underwear as he pulls them on. He goes commando frequently- it’s easier to deal with all around. He dons a blue button-down, leaving it undone, the air a bit humid despite the time of night. He push, shuffle shuffles his way to the bathroom, which also has a wide door, glancing around and feeling mildly impressed. It’s clear Dean built this house from the ground up, and in recognizing that, Castiel realizes that’s why it took Dean two years to contact him. Likely every minute of every daylight hour was spent crafting this cottage. 

The most love and skill is here, in the bathroom. The floors are heated tile, the controls for it right next to the door. The lights are on a dimmer. There’s a fancy toilet, the kind with a lid that automatically opens and shuts depending on what stage of business you’re in, and it’s also outfitted with a bidet. The shower is large, easily able to fit two people, tiled in pretty whites and blues with two bench seats on either side and two detachable shower heads. 

What really draws Castiel’s attention, though, is the claw-footed bathtub next to a window that overlooks the sea and their private beach. The tub itself is white, the claws a polished silver to match the faucet that comes directly out of the ground. It’s not accessible, but Castiel knows that the only time he’ll want to take a luxurious bath is with Dean submerged in bubbles with him, and he knows that Dean is more than happy to pick him up and put him where he wants to be. 

The toilet is a godsend. Castiel didn’t realize how rough he’s had it in the commode until it’s so easy he almost thinks he’s not done when everything is over. Before he knows it he’s standing (still too tired to not sit while doing his business) and buttoning his shorts. He washes his hands in the bird bath sink, eyeing the beautiful shelves next to it and all the products displayed. Eco-friendly, made locally, in sourced and responsible packaging; there’s so many beauty products, Castiel wonders idly how Dean survived on bar soap in jail. 

Smirking to himself, he knows that Dean probably hated every minute of it. 

He push, shuffle shuffles his way out into the main area of the cottage. The lights are dimmed everywhere. Looking out the french doors he sees fairy lights strung about the little courtyard, deciding to try his luck there. Dean is seated on one of the lounger chairs with a book in hand, some soft rock music playing quietly on a boombox set on the picnic table. Castiel is unable to make a quiet approach, so Dean turns when he hears the push, shuffle shuffle of Castiel crossing over the french doors and moving out onto the patio.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean greets, closing his book. “Come have a seat.” 

Castiel appreciates that Dean doesn’t get up to help him. He makes his way over to the chair next to Dean’s. He can finally see what else is on the picnic table; a charcuterie board and fixings for a fresh salad. 

“Went to the market while you napped,” Dean says, gesturing towards the food. “Y’know, I know prison fucking sucks all around, but even a friggin’ _charcuterie board_ makes me feel like a king.” He laughs. 

“It’s not just the food,” Castiel says, choosing to sit on the bench at the table so he can start picking up items to eat. He sends Dean a wry glance, “I saw what you have on the shelves in the bathroom.” 

Dean doesn’t even have the audacity to look called out. He winks, “How d’ya think I stay so youthful and pretty, huh? Magic in a jar. There’s a lady in St. Stephen’s square who does everything herself. She makes the containers out of clay, makes the product out of local ingredients. She’s an old biddy but she thinks it’s amusing that an American guy wants to buy out her stock every month.” He shrugs, grins, then turns to look out towards the sea. “She probably likes me so much ‘cause I tip her one-hundred percent of the profit.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence after Dean chuckles to himself. In the twilight the sea is still beautiful, out here rural enough to be dark and slightly ominous. Castiel nibbles on food, his stomach unsure due to jet lag, then pours himself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher in front of him. He takes this time to regard Dean under the soft twinkle of fairy lights; this Dean who is no longer shackled by law, this Dean who is… better than the Dean from Castiel’s memories. 

For so long Castiel has had this image of one-night-stand-Dean in his head. He knows he can trace his freckles, count his ginger lashes, nuzzle into his fragrant and soft hair. He knows he can trace that body from top to bottom and know every nook and cranny; everywhere to give pleasure and take it in return. 

But this Dean in front of him, this Dean with his soft, loose clothing and tan skin and a soft smile curled on his plush lips…

This is a new Dean, and Castiel knows that this will be his favorite version.

He can only wonder what he, himself, will grow into.

“Hey,” Dean says softly, turning his head from where it’s reclined on the chair so he can send Castiel an amused smile. “Stop thinking.”

Castiel automatically scowls.

Dean laughs. “I know it’s like, impossible for you to not think, but… soon you’ll figure it out. I tell ya, this was the best idea Crowley ever had- retiring some place pretty and deserted. Didja know that Hvar has twenty-eight hundred sunshine hours per year? That’s just over a hundred and fifteen days. At any given time, y’know, not just during summer. Coldest month is January but even then, s’just sweater weather.” He lifts his arms up, lacing his fingers behind his neck as he tilts his head back to look at the starry night.

Castiel looks up, too. He’s taken back to the scene of the accident and how he’d wished desperately to be able to see one star… Now, here, two years later, he can probably see every star in the Milky Way and beyond. It’s one of those small nuances that lets Castiel know Dean knows more than he lets on, that Dean can read Castiel better than anyone - even himself, sometimes. 

It’s lovely. The sky is a deep, rich blue, nearly black. The stars are smattered across it like the freckles are smattered across Dean’s golden skin. He can see the cloudy shape of the Milky Way directly overhead. In this moment, here with Dean, peaceful and tranquil, Castiel is… happy to be alive. Glad, even. 

“Rains a lot in the fall, but I’ll take it over snow. Hell, I’ve been happier than a clam, not havin’ to shovel snow every year. Then again s’not like in prison I had to shovel any driveways.” 

Castiel lets Dean’s voice wash over him. He gets up, walks on his own to the chair next to Dean’s, scoots it close, then relaxes on the soft cushions. Dean’s voice is soft, inclusive, the tenderness amplified when he reaches out to hold Castiel’s hand on the arm of his chair.

“Been waitin’ for you to get here so we can do all the touristy shit together. Hadda make sure our house was perfect, though. Built it myself from the ground up. Hired some locals every now and again, ‘specially when I was workin’ on somethin’ I didn’t know about - plumbing’s a bitch - but this place was made with my own two hands. Spent every day workin’ on it inside and out, depending on what the weather was like. First thing I did was install Wi-Fi though.” He laughs. “Didn’t realize I missed it so much ‘til I had it again. Did you know YouTube has literally everything on it? Shoot, I’m basically a carpenter now thanks to all the dee-eye-why tutorials.” Dean’s voice has a beautiful drawl to it, only audible now that he’s truly relaxed and at peace. 

This Dean… This is the Dean Castiel didn’t know he was waiting for.

Dean continues to chatter and ramble about all he did to build the house. He says the garage is where he has all of his tools, along with his precious Baby - his car, he explains - which he had specially delivered to Hvar via ship. Castiel’s very curious about Dean’s car, because he’s talked about it wistfully so often, but knows he can wait until they have an excursion to town. Surely it’s a behemoth, compared to all the tiny European cars that zip around the cobbled streets. Dean also reveals that he has a moped and a motorcycle, and that once Castiel gets his legs and feet strong enough, he has his pick of either one (or both. Dean only says Baby is off limits but Castiel can have whatever mode of transportation he wants). 

Eventually Castiel’s eyes start to droop again. Since the accident he’s been on a myriad of medications, including ones to help him sleep. He has a sneaking suspicion that now he’s with Dean again, he can reduce his medication intake significantly. The pain pills won’t go anywhere but he thinks the mood stabilizers and the sleep medications might be stored away for whenever they might need them in the future. Dean notices Castiel’s sleepiness, his voice tapering off before he stands up. Castiel’s eyes barely open when Dean helps him out of the chair and walks with him back inside the cottage. He barely registers soft sheets and cool pillows when Dean helps him into bed.

The only thing he registers is Dean gathering him up in his arms, holding him like he never wants to lose him again. Like this Castiel becomes boneless, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

He’s finally where he belongs.

✨✨✨

Over the next few days Dean helps Castiel get used to the layout of the house. They make it down to the beach a couple times for a refreshing swim, Dean making unending perverted comments about how strong Castiel’s chest, shoulders, and arms have gotten over the past two years.

“Can still pin me down,” Dean says off-handedly one day while they eat breakfast.

“Can still shut you up,” Castiel growls in reply. Breakfast is his favorite meal of the day and sometimes (most times) Dean’s chatter is enough to annoy him. 

“Oooh,” Dean shivers in delight, his eyes lighting up. “There’s my bad boy.” 

Dean even inelegantly asks Castiel if sex is still an option. Which on the one hand is sort of cute, because all of this proves that it’s not ‘just a sex thing’ between them; Dean had gone through all this trouble to accomodate Castiel and would _still_ accomodate him even if sex were to be taken off the table. But on the other hand it has Castiel rolling his eyes when Dean asks if he has “limp dick” over breakfast.

Why must he ask all the annoying questions over breakfast?

“My dick is fine, and if you don’t shut up you’ll be eating it for breakfast instead of your acai bowl,” Castiel snaps. 

Dean dons a shit-eating grin in reply, almost challenging. But they both know Castiel is still a long way off from participating rigorous sexual activity. One must walk before they can run, after all.

Or in this case, one must walk before they can marathon sex. 

Amazingly, for Castiel’s checkups, Dean flies out Kevin Tran every two months. Perhaps it’s not that amazing after all, given Dean’s position in the world, but whenever he spends money without blinking an eye it still catches Castiel by surprise. He’s so used to seeing Dean locked up in a cell with no access to even the internet that it’s hard to connect that Dean with this Dean. Though, Dean’s masterminding knows no bounds, so Castiel’s sure that he’ll adjust to the newness sooner or later. After all, he was able to craft and curate the takedown of the biggest American crime syndicate through the aid and use of others. Dean isn’t afraid to reach out when he needs to. Perhaps that’s one upside of him being locked up, Castiel thinks occasionally. Dean is a very independent man, but he also knows it’s not a weakness to ask for help.

Which is why Castiel grumbles grumpily through Kevin Tran’s checkups every two months. 

“How are you doing?” Kevin asks as he checks the flexibility of Castiel’s legs. 

His legs are quite flexible, he has lots of movement in his hips- he’s just still a little weak. But it’s been four months since he landed in Stari Grad and he and Dean have been working hard. They swim every single day, Castiel uses the exercise equipment Dean got him every single day; the muscle mass in his legs is returning, though his arms, shoulders and chest are still disproportionately large. Not that Dean’s complaining. Castiel’s pretty sure he still drools every time Castiel goes shirtless. 

“Fine,” Castiel says like he does every single time Kevin asks. “I would like to ask for approval to switch from my walker to a cane.” 

Kevin raises his brows in surprise. “That’s a lot of improvement.” Castiel is lying on his back on the flat floor of their living room, Kevin’s hands on his feet to bend him and flex him this way and that. “Have you been walking on your own?” 

“Short distances,” Castiel says. “I can walk from the patio to the beach and back. Yesterday we were in the market and I left my walker on the moped. We walked for thirty minutes before I had to rest.”

“Were you able to walk again after resting?” Kevin switches from Castiel’s right foot to his left, making the same stretching movements. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, the air whooshing out of his lungs when Kevin uses the leverage on his foot to bend his knee up to his chest. 

“I’m impressed,” Kevin says with a grin. He adjusts his position on his knees and grabs both of Castiel’s feet, guiding his legs to spread out into a butterfly position to open up his hips. Castiel lets out an appreciative groan as the doctor leans his weight forward to really push the stretch. “If you think you’re ready for a cane, then I say go for it. Maybe keep your walker close for ‘just in case’. I know it’s hard to navigate these old cobbled streets with tiny wheels.”

“Hey now,” Dean comes into the open front door, laughing at Kevin and Castiel’s compromising position. “No sampling the goods before I get a taste, doc.”

Kevin blushes furiously, gently releasing Castiel and sitting back on his haunches. “W-we were just testing his flexibility-”

“Speaking of flexibility,” Dean interrupts the good doctor’s fumbled words, “is he cleared for sex yet?” 

“Oh,” that makes Kevin blush even darker. He stands up, pulling a handkerchief out of the back pocket of his jeans to mop his face from the humidity as well as the nervous sweat that’s no doubt broke out on his brow. “A-as long as it’s not too, um, brutal,” Kevin sneaks a look at Dean and then pointedly looks elsewhere. “Though I think you guys can work up to what’s, um, no-normal for you.” 

Castiel, by now, has sat up with his legs criss-crossed, hands on his ankles as he watches Kevin stumble over his words. He’s the only one in Dean’s employ that he’s seen interact directly with Dean and the dynamic is always… very interesting. Kevin is clearly Dean’s subordinate, both in position as well as behavior. He wonders how other people in Dean’s web react around him. It’s a good reminder to Castiel, who has gone a bit soft over the past four months, that Dean is a _very_ dangerous man. 

It’s… very arousing. 

Dean claps Kevin on the shoulder, making the doctor stumble slightly and send him a nervous smile. “Atta boy, Kev. You’re a good man.”

“You’re the one flying me to paradise every two months,” Kevin tries to be jovial, but it falls a little flat, surely due to Dean’s close proximity to him. 

“And you’re the one taking care of my boyfriend,” Dean says brightly, knuckling playfully under Kevin’s chin, though Castiel can see how nervous that makes the young man. “S’long as you keep him healthy, you keep me happy.”

“O-of course, Sir,” Kevin says, looking very much like a frightened deer. 

“Now,” Dean pulls back, clapping his hands and gesturing towards the bags he’d left on the floor. “Join us for lunch?” 

Kevin looks like he might faint.

Castiel lets out a genuine chuckle as he gets up from the floor all on his own. 

Seeing Dean in a position of power is… revitalizing. The power balance Castiel held by a tether when Dean was in jail gets further and further away from him. 

Castiel thought having power of Dean was intoxicating. 

Finding out it might be the other way around… 

Well. He’s glad the good doctor cleared him for sexual activity.

✨✨✨

“Tell ya what,” Dean says into the cell phone. He and Castiel are relaxing on a large beach blanket, the day cloudless and the water perfect. Castiel is lying on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms, cracking an eye open to watch Dean sit up. His entire demeanor changes as soon as he hears whatever the person on the other line says, Castiel feeling tingles run down his spine at his tone of voice. “You get that stupid sonuvabitch before he makes headlines again and I’ll double your wages. If the FBI gets called in on that case we’re done for. A’right?” The person on the other line must agree, because Dean gives a bright “Thanks!” before hanging up and tossing the phone onto their beach bag.

“I’ll admit,” Castiel says when Dean lies down again. “When you said you were turning a crime ring into a bounty hunter ring, I thought the idea was ridiculous.”

Dean settles on his back, sending Castiel a crooked smirk. “I know. You laughed at me for ten minutes.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You didn’t strike me as the vigilante type. But I suppose it takes crazy to catch crazy.”

“Ain’t that why the FBI let you get away with so much shit?” Dean says with a cheeky green. 

“According to Bobby, yes,” Castiel replies dryly.

Dean rolls onto his side, bending his elbow to prop his head on his palm as he regards Castiel thoughtfully. “Sometimes I’m pretty sure you’re crazier’n me.” 

Castiel’s eyes close. “I think the term ‘crazy’ is relative as well as outdated.” 

He can hear the smile in Dean’s voice. “What, does bein’ called ‘crazy’ offend you?”

“I think it is an inadequate term to describe my mental state.”

“‘Cause you’re on another level,” Dean surmises. 

“I have the skills and fortitude to rise above any textbook definition of ‘crazy’ and any of its other subsidiaries and counterparts.” 

“Mmm, I love it when you talk all smart.” 

That causes Castiel to smile into the crook of his elbow.

✨✨✨

“Dean.”

“Mm?” 

“Dean.”

“Yeah-”

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean nearly knocks his head on the hood of his car as he gets out of her engine. He grumbles a little anyway, turning to where Castiel is standing just outside of the garage, leaning his weight on his cane. 

“Yeah, babe?” 

“I would like to have sex.” 

Dean’s brows rise, his eyes blinking rapidly in surprise as he tilts his head a little as if to hear better. “You wanna… have sex?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. The cane in his left hand is shiny black with a rubber bottom and an elegant curve where his palm rests on it. 

Dean looks at his car, then looks at Castiel. “Like- right now?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “No, next Tuesday.” 

Grinning, Dean wipes his hands clean on a rag before he tosses it over his engine, striding towards Castiel. He wraps his arms around the other man’s waist, drawing him in so their chests and noses touch, his smile so big the dimples in his cheeks are visible. “How do you want me, baby?”

Castiel’s eyes flick over Dean’s shoulder to his car. Dean follows his gaze, then lets out a groan of approval. 

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” he replies readily. He pulls away from Castiel to grab the rag and toss it aside, dropping the hood with a clang and then bending himself over it. 

Castiel moves behind him, leaning his cane against Baby’s bumper. His hands caress over the thin t-shirt stretching over Dean’s back as he bends over, then round to the front of his jeans to pop the button and lower the zipper. Dean’s half-hard cock meets his palm, his hips rocking to try and get more friction. It takes nothing to get Dean going, probably because they’ve gone so long without doing anything, and the surge of power that rushes through Castiel is intoxicating. 

“Lower your jeans to your knees,” Castiel says. 

Dean responds beautifully, shimmying his jeans and underwear over his hips to expose the perfect roundness of his ass. It gives him just a bit of freedom to spread his legs a little, but not much. Very carefully, Castiel drops into a crouch and spreads Dean’s cheeks apart with his hands. They usually sun naked on the beach, so there’s no tan lines in sight as he leans in and bites at the curve of Dean’s cheek. There are even freckles here. Castiel nips, bites, and kisses all over both fleshy globes before he pulls back, spitting directly onto Dean’s hole.

“Oh my God, Cas,” Dean pants out. He wiggles his hips a little, pressing his forehead to the hood of his car. 

Humming softly, Castiel runs his thumb over his puckered hole. It twitches and gives minutely. More than two years have passed since the last time they were intimate. Dean had confessed that he hasn’t even masturbated in the time they’ve been apart, too busy building the house and thinking about the day Castiel would return to him. Once again, abstinence lends a hand, Dean’s body virgin tight once more. Leaning in, Castiel seals his lips to Dean’s hole, uncaring that they both probably should have showered, each wrapped up in some sort of task that left a layer of sweat on their bodies. 

It’s just too perfect.

Dean’s musky flavor explodes over Castiel’s tongue as he nips and sucks at the tight ring of muscle. Dean does his best to stay quiet but he rocks his hips, the car’s suspension squeaking quietly with his movement. Castiel pulls back for breath, then dives right back in. It takes nothing to get Dean’s hole loose and sloppy, a finger joining the movement, sinking into his hole oh so easily. Dean’s body was made for this, made for _him_. 

Standing up, Castiel ignores Dean’s whine as he reaches into his pocket and grabs the bottle of lube he stashed there before coming out. He coats his fingers and slides two into Dean’s twitching pucker, his thumb running along his taint and causing a surprised moan to burst free from his lips. Pulling his fingers free he uses his clean hand to undo his shorts, dropping them and stepping out of them, kicking them to the side. He swipes the excess lube from his other hand over his straining erection, quietly thanking the gods that he doesn’t actually have limp dick. He’s been too preoccupied to check and like Dean, too busy to see if everything works. 

As he sinks into glorious, tight wet heat, he’s one-hundred percent certain that everything works.

Dean keens for as long as it takes for Castiel to get balls deep. He pauses for just a moment, then thrusts shallowly. He tests everything- he tests the hardness of his cock, the swing of his swollen balls, all the way to how his hips thrust and his thighs flex while his feet plant to the ground to brace his weight without any support. Finding everything to be just right, he pulls out all the way and then slams back into Dean, this time truly rocking the car and jolting the other man’s body. Dean howls in reply, white-knuckling either side of the hood as Castiel thrusts into him with increasing speed and force. One hand on Dean’s hip, the other reaches up to grab Dean’s hair, yanking his head back at what’s surely an uncomfortable angle. Dean just pants and moans out, his asshole clenching around Castiel’s cock. 

“This is what you’ve been waiting for,” Castiel growls. In all their trysts he’s never been too talkative, but suddenly he feels like he’s got a lot to say with Dean submissive and so pretty under him. 

Dean nods, unable to speak with his head craned back. 

“Your body knows it’s mine,” Castiel continues. “You will submit and serve me any time I ask, because every last cell in your body knows it’s _mine_.”

“Fu-huh-” is the breathless, shapeless reply. 

“Never again will you make a cripple joke. Never again will you call me ‘old man’. Not when you know I can fuck,” thrust, “you,” thrust, “like,” thrust, “ _this_.” He nips sharply at Dean's ear, nearly breaking the skin. " _You will show me some respect_."

He releases his grip on Dean’s hair, the man’s head thunking down on the hood with surprising force. 

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God, Cas- Cas- _fuck yeah_ baby fuck, you fuck so good, fuck, use my hole however you want, ngh, hnh-” Dean’s erection is trapped between his body and the hood of the car. Castiel makes no move to grab it. 

“You’ll come on my cock,” he decides. Both hands are now gripping Dean’s hips as he pins him down with his body weight, changing the angle of his thrusts and making Dean let out a high pitched yelp. “Show me how much you’ve missed it.” 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean gasps out. “Missed your cock so much, nothing compares, couldn’t- ah! -couldn’t even masturbate ‘cause it’s, hnh, not as go-ood…”

Castiel lets up just enough so that Dean can start rocking his hips back against Castiel’s. The car is now groaning and squeaking in time with their movement, the power of Castiel’s thrusts threatening to dislodge the e-brake. Strength he didn’t even know he possessed powers through him as he fucks Dean into next week, the sweat over their bodies springing anew, dripping down their temples, soaking through their shirts and making each thrust more slippery than the last. 

Reaching up again, Castiel wraps his fingers around Dean’s throat, lifting him up just slightly to get an arch in Dean’s spine. Leaning over him, Castiel puts his lips directly next to Dean’s ear, his voice a low rumble as he says, “Cum for me, you filthy slut.” 

Dean does. His orgasm quakes through him, his breath stopped in his throat from where Castiel’s fingers are squeezing. His eyes roll back in his head, his ass squeezes so hard Castiel thinks it might snap his cock off. His release splatters all over the grill of the impala, his body shaking and trembling in the aftershocks. Castiel uses his grip on Dean’s throat to pull him back as he slips his cock out of his body, dragging Dean roughly to kneel in front of him. When he lets go of Dean’s throat he allows him one gasping inhale, then shoves his cock into his mouth.

It goes in without resistance. Dean’s eyes flutter closed, his throat flexes and swallows around Castiel’s cock, and then it’s over. Castiel spills down Dean’s throat, wave after wave, his fingers tangled in sandy blond hair as his hips twitch and his balls pulse. It seems to be never ending, until finally it does. Dean’s breathing harshly through his nose and Castiel pulls his cock free from that sweet heaven, dropping carefully to his own knees to crush their mouths together. What cum didn’t seep down Dean’s throat gets passed between them in their messy kiss, hands grabbing at each other, breaths stuttered and broken. 

As they come down they hold onto each other’s heads, fingers tangled in hair, foreheads pressed together. 

Castiel’s eyes open slowly. Dean’s are already open and alert, a small smirk on his features. His sun kissed skin is glowing with sweat and satisfaction, his green eyes shimmering with that little spark Castiel never knew how to handle.

“Damn, babe,” Dean says, voice wrecked. 

Castiel feels a small smirk filter over his features. “What were you saying this morning about me being a crippled old man?” 

“I take everything back,” the other man laughs breathlessly. 

“Good.” Castiel takes stock of his body, eyeing his cane where it fell due to the car shaking and rocking. He turns his gaze to Dean. “Now help me up.” 

Dean grins and helps him up, picking up his cane in the process and handing it over. 

It feels good to be back.

✨✨✨

“So I’ve got this ‘vigilante’ thing or whatever you wanna call it back in the states,” Dean says one night over dinner, “but did you know that Hvar actually has issues with problematic tourists?”

Castiel arches a brow at him, bringing his spoon to his mouth as he eats his soup and stays quiet. 

“People goin’ crazy at night, like, really letting loose and vandalizing the really sacred and ancient parts of the city,” Dean continues. 

Castiel takes a sip of his lavender lemonade. 

“I was thinkin’,” Dean says with a pondering look, though his tone of voice lets Castiel know it’s something that he was both thinking about and already planning on executing. “You been on such good behavior and your body’s really healin’ up. That rubber stopper on your cane is basically silent, and you’ve got your step back.” 

Castiel really wishes Dean would get to the point. 

Dean sends Castiel a wolfish smile, one that glints and sharpens his teeth in the fairy lights surrounding the picnic area on the patio. “How do you feel about goin’ off and havin’ a little fun this Saturday night?” 

Finally, Castiel catches on.

The smirk he returns to Dean is absolutely predatory. 

“I think I would like that very much.” 

Oh, Dean takes _such_ good care of him.

💀💀💀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_fin_**  
>  next chapter will be the epilogue, tho its not a necessity in order to consider this story complete, because it is.  
> i did promise somewhat of a happy ending, right?


End file.
